


Fade Into The Night

by TrufflesTheMushroom



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Atlantic Rim, Dammit Mikey, Developing Friendships, Gen, Jaeger Pilots, Multilingual Character, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrufflesTheMushroom/pseuds/TrufflesTheMushroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whistleblower and known troublemaker April O'Neil strikes a deal with the Pan-Atlantic Defense Corps- she's allowed inside the New York Shatterdome if she stops reporting about a sudden wave of new Kaiju attacks being covered up by the media. The world isn't ready for the Shatterdome's greatest secret: two Jaegers that aren't supposed to exist, corruption running deep in the PADC, and a team of four young pilots who can Drift in any pair combination between them named Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello and Michelangelo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

-

-

2027: Two Years After The Second Breach

-

'C'mon,' April thinks wryly to herself as she is frog-marched with nary a friendly word her way into the cramped, metal-lined offices of the Pan-Atlantic Defense Corps East Coast Branch Unit. The two thugs on either side of her dig their sausage fingers unnecessarily roughly into the sleeves of her new yellow coat and grimace, showing off grit-stained teeth. Really, they're almost comical in their classically cartoonish thuggishness. 'Where are the PADC even finding these guys?'

After a long walk down a narrow hallway that stinks of a long-uncleaned air conditioner filter and cheap stale coffee, April is deposited roughly into a waiting area in front of a closed office door with a real, actual, shit-you-not shiny brass nameplate on it. Typical. There are some janitors and office workers milling about, looking completely nonplussed about the heavily armed guards on either side of the entrance, and the reporter Misters Andre the Giant and Ahhhh-nold have practically dragged in by the arms.

April shakes her short red hair out of her face and stifles a huff, yanking her sleeves out of their grip and dusting them off as snootily as she can manage. "D'you guys get bonuses for roughing up the kidnapping victim or what?"

She's just about to plop down on a free chair when everyone in the room jumps-

"O'NEIL! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!"

Without even bothering to look back, April marches, one black-leather-boot in front of the other, straight into the office, ignoring the protests from the hired meatheads. She's immediately greeted by a red-faced little man with an honest-to-goodness cigar in his mouth, doing his best impression of a steaming kettle behind an ornate pre-Breach desk covered in files.

"Good morning, Chief Sterns-"

"Just what is it that you hope to accomplish out there, besides busting my chops?" screams the little man, standing up and getting in April's face, nearly covering her in brown spittle. Ugh. "You've had your last warning to zip your pie hole. And now you're going to explain to me exactly what was going on in that empty little head of yours when you spewed this nonsense last night."

The Chief digs a small remote out of his lapel pocket and points it at one of the TVs on the wall of his impressive office, and it immediately tunes in to April's own face, sitting calmly in her home studio and broadcasting her message to the entire world. Once every so often, it cuts to one of her own clip montages, spliced together from 'borrowed' reels she dug out of piles marked 'Destroy' at the back of the actual news station's editing room.

_-have been swamped with the angry voices of more and more citizens who have fallen victim to the recent surge of Kaiju attacks that has continued to-_

April takes a moment to admire how crisp her editing looks on a quality screen and to congratulate herself on a job well done. Smoothly, she leans her hip on the chair in front of Chief Sterns' desk and gives her best Impartial Reporter Smile. "I think you know much more than you're letting on about what's happening out there, and I don't think it's right of the PADC to keep everyone in the dark about it-"

"And Miss O'Neil the Super-Spy knows better than the entire Pan-Pacific Defense Corps about what the public is better off knowing about?" Chief Sterns spits, gesticulating at the screen in half-suppressed rage. "You're fear mongering, and wildly speculating about things you don't understand. Things way beyond you."

"Which is why you intruded into my apartment without a warrant and dragged me here? To bully me into stopping my investigation?" April asks innocently, shrugging and letting the collar of her new yellow coat brush against her ears to cover her quiet indignation at being called any sort of spy. "Because it didn't work the last six times you tried. And it won't work anytime soon. You can keep sending your little Jarhead flunkies after me, but I'm not stopping."

"You expect me to waste precious manpower just because you're scaring the victims into blaming the PADC for a nonexistent problem? No," says the Chief, and this time he bites down onto his cigar hard enough to drop the ashes on the metal floor. He's turned a very interesting puce color. "Not this time, O'Neil. I've had enough."

_-a single reliable eyewitness. Only a few vague reports of PADC-affiliated researchers and shady individuals at the scenes have-_

"I'm hiring you."

April blinks one or two times, and then sighs with a roll of her eyes, "Took you long enough."

"You haven't won," says the Chief, who rips the remains of the cigar out of his mouth and lights a new one almost instantly. April wonders if it's a cheap knock-off or genuine contraband. "But to get the dog off the leg, you give it a bone. And here's the bone. Pennington's your handler, and if you behave you've got yourself a free pass into the new East Coast Shatterdome up in Long Island. You write up a pretty little story about how smoothly it's running, our state-of-the-art new Jaeger, Doctors Stockman and Chaplin, anything. And when you finally realize that the PADC isn't hiding so much as a scrap of information from the public, you stop spreading your lies and everyone's happy."

"Deal!" says April, quite happy with the arrangement. "When do I head out? I want a half- camera crew, two vans, a full equipment rig, on-site broadcasting capability-"

The Chief, she is fully aware, has been onto her from the very beginning, and he screams at her with all the fury of a man who knows he's been had, "ARE YOU TRYNA TELL ME HOW TO DO MY JOB?!"

April hightails it out of there, beaming like the sun's shining out from behind her teeth, one fully recorded conversation humming in the pocket of her custom yellow coat and a new job to take advantage of. She finally has her in- and though Sterns might think that she'll be easier to keep an eye on when she's being monitored by the entire Shatterdome, April knows that the best kind of espionage is the kind done right under the poor fools' noses.

Super-spy, indeed. April considers herself a vigilante of truth and a voice for the people rather than any sort of spy.

After all, spies break laws, and all she does is casually step around them a bit sometimes.

-

In the darkness, four pairs of eyes fix on the screen of their busted-up old television set.

A spritely young redheaded woman, in her (very) early twenties and sitting with her back straight in a pretty yellow coat, is a harsh juxtaposition against her clips of a torn, jagged shoreline dotted in wreckage and the unmistakable sheen of toxic Kaiju Blue.

_Much more than just a series of small, isolated incidents, it's now apparent that an organized criminal element is at work and at the moment, business is good. So good, in fact, that though the corruption is ready apparent to everyone, no one is willing to talk. With money being embezzled under our noses and official documents suspiciously disappearing, the local forums have been swamped with the angry voices of more and more citizens who have fallen victim to the recent surge of Kaiju attacks that has continued to plague the coasts. Instead of getting better, things are actually getting worse._

_Even more alarming is the baffling and often bizarre nature of these attacks. New Kaiju of every size and description from childlike embryos to advanced-stage specimens have been crawling on to our shores and beaches at an exponentially increasing rate, but none of the survivors are willing to describe the initial attacks. Many of the victims' families don't even know about these attacks until it's too late. In fact, police have yet to come up a single reliable eyewitness. Only a few vague reports of PADC-affiliated researchers and shady individuals at the scenes have been filed. But whoever is behind this fresh wave of censorship, one thing is certain; these are much than just a series of random isolated incidents. Unreported Kaiju? An invisible Jaeger at work? Who are we gonna call?_

_Unfortunately, the new Shatterdomes dotting our shorelines are the only ones able to combat what some are already dubbing the Silent New Kaiju Wave.... but perhaps the most disturbing silence is that coming from the PADC._

_April O'Neil, The People's Private Eye News._

The clip ends, and the channel, an independent broadcasting network handled by a ragtag worldwide hacking team, goes to static once more.

In the silence, a voice pops up around a mouthful of rationed potato chips, "Aw, dude. She's talking about us, isn't she?"

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> The mystery begins!
> 
> -


	2. Drop (Or, April's First Day At Work)

-

It is a cold, dewy morning when April O'Neil touches down on the landing pad New York Shatterdome, and somehow, it feels appropriate. She has always thought that brisk spring sunrises were the perfect beginnings, and even before her things are done unloading, April is cordially shaking her guide's hand and plotting her escape from under his watchful eye.

The air is cold here. Cold, wet, and brimming with secrets. The crisp fog clips at the edges of the monstrous construct leaning over the Bay, by no means the most ostentatious new addition to the world's ever-diminishing shorelines, but perhaps the most imposing. It's treated just like any other building- stupid, shiny, too big, and the closest anyone has ever had to a home. The glorified doormen don't bother hiding their gapes, as if taking their eyes off of the famous April O'Neil will be their one-way ticket to an early, and rather unwanted retirement. They move around her jerkily, not speaking to one another, possibly considering if she'll be able to wring out confessions from them with a single look. Whistleblower O'Neil. Superspy O'Neil. April the Busybody. Even the security cameras aren't going for any amount of subtlety, tracking her all the way across the landing pad as shamelessly as cameras can behave.

It's all a little flattering.

'But really,' April thinks to herself as she's packed into the entrance elevator and squeezed into her own short stack of suitcases and equipment by a hastily following Charles Pennington. 'All of this is totally unnecessary.' With luck, there won't be any snooping to do at all. Her story'll be handed to her on a silver platter by those who can't resist a good juicy bit of gossip.

"You got room and board here too, Charles?" April asks mildly, feigning interest in the button panel. Her handler (or rather, a harassed-looking middle-aged manager turned bodyguard) gives a start at that, and then quickly snorts.

"Nah. You're a grown woman, you know how to take care of yourself. Sterns thinks I'm staying here and hovering over your shoulder, though, so don't rat me out."

April doesn't give him her real smile, but she nearly lets it slip. "Wouldn't dream of it. Is it about Danny?"

Pennington looks for a moment as if he's biting back an indignant squeak before he just settles half on to one of April's boxes, shaking his head with a smile. "Superspy O'Neil."

"I'm not a spy, Charles."

"And Danny isn't a Jaeger pilot, no matter how much he wants to be."

"I'm surprised you let him sign up."

"I didn't let- of course I didn't let him," says Pennington, grimacing. He hikes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and sighs. "But the moment he turned sixteen he went up and packed his bags, hitchhiked a ride over here before I could call the cops. Turns out he'd turned in his application months in advance and Confidentiality means I didn't even know about it till I saw his name on the roster myself. Jaeger pilot, my ass. He can't even drive a car yet and he's-"

Pennington pauses, casting an eye around the elevator at the movers who are practicing their very best impressions of potted plants (of the genus disinclined to eavesdrop), and then seems to shake himself out of his own reverie. He straightens up as the Elevator slowly starts to slow down. "But I know he won't graduate, so it's just a waiting game from now till the moment he gives up and finds some other, hopefully much less idiotic way to two the exact opposite of what I tell him. Right now he's just happy if we ignore each other. He'd just get mad if he saw me hanging around the Dome."

At this, April perks up.

Jaeger Academy. It's a fascinating subject.

"How do you know he won't graduate?"

Pennington eases off of April's boxes. "Kid like him? Un-Driftable. No discipline. Low combat ability, worse simulation scores-"

"He's a good kid, Charles," April cuts him off, when the elevator finally grinds to a halt. She dusts off the front of her coat in two quick, deliberate moves, hiking the collar up around her jaw. "Reminds me a little of me when I was in high school."

"You forget that wasn't so long ago," says Pennington, and for the first time in what April knows has been far too long he seems to have a sort of light in his face once again. She's about to make a quip back at him, when, as if perfectly timed, the elevator doors slide open and her handler gestures in a self-consciously grand sweep of his hands, "And kid, welcome to the New York Shatterdome."

April's initial thought is that it's massive.

Her second is that it's ugly.

Her third, and the thought that shapes most of her opinions about the place henceforth, is that it's like someone took the essence of the nighttime streets of New York and jammed it all into one experience.

It feels like the New York from before- before the Breach, even, in some odd sense. It's dark and ritzy and gritty and far too musty in the corners to be perfectly sanitary, and the rafters above the series of interconnected hangars and the high, twinkling corridors that lead into a veritable maze of concrete offices and metal-lined labs cast long, dark shadows across the half-buffed, half scuffed floors. The crisp salty air seems to undulate and buzz with some sort of spirit of its own. There's movement everywhere, and people in rolled-up sleeves with greasy smears on their cheeks wheel around the best equipment April's seen like they're hot dog vendors on a lazy Tuesday evening.

And April knows she's the one gaping now, but she can't muster up a single molecule in her system that cares. She just stands there, mouth open like a fish, taking it all in.

This is the New York Shatterdome. This is where the truth resides. Somewhere deep inside, there are secrets to be uncovered. A mystery. And- and real, actual Jaegers-

Pennington's trying to get her attention- it all sounds a bit like fuzz. It's only when one of the uniformed movers taps her on the shoulder that April turns around.

It's a tall young man who really needs a shave and a haircut, who jabs his thumb towards April's boxes. "Where do these go?"

She ignores him. "Where are the Jaegers?"

The mover stares at her for a second before cracking a grin. "Ain't you supposed to stick with Jeeves here?"

April doesn't miss a beat. "Charles, I'm going to go see the Jaegers."

To his enormous credit, Pennington only shrugs. "I'll take your things to your room. Meet me in LOCCENT for your first scheduled interview at thirteen-thirty, got it?"

April gives him her very best salute along with a chipper, "Yes, sir!" at him before rounding back on to the mover. She gestures to Pennington's retreating back and chirps, "Aren't _you_ supposed to stick with Jeeves here…" and taking a glance at the name tag on his chest, "… Jones?"

"Whatever," the mover shrugs, and starts wheeling her things away. "Don't break our robots, babe."

"Call me that again and your face will be smashed under my heel," replies April sweetly, and she whirls around, headed straight for the shaft of light directly to her right, towards the open hangars.

The people she passes give her a wide berth- some stare at her, some leer, and some make a show of their indifference. A few tip their hats to her.

One (a custodian) calls out, stopping mid-mop to jauntily call out, "Welcome to the Dome, Miss Whistleblower!" He looks like a local. Possibly someone from the Callahan Seaboard Labor Union. April spent four months putting together that story, and she's rather proud of the dirty, fish scale-coated mug shot that the local news stations broadcasted along with the generous coverage of the scandal. Six corrupt union heads were arrested that day, and two hundred workers paid for their lost wages.

April takes the guess. "Callahan Union?"

"Aye, ma'am," says the man, whipping off his cap to press it against his chest with a toothy grin.

She beams at him. "I'm happy to have helped."

April turns back around to make a beeline towards the Loading Bay, dimly aware that she's receiving less glares now, and when she finally approaches the door she doesn't stop to take a breath. She drops one hand into the pocket of her yellow coat and flicks on her recording device, heart strumming in her chest, and slips through the open doors and into the blue, sky-lit open hangar.

And the Bay is-

Well. April may be a reporter, but it's downright _beautiful_ and she can't ruin the moment with words. She just can't.

She turns the device off.

The hangar is, surprisingly, much taller than it is wide, with metal railways and staircases, enormous rigs and assembly equipment jutting out of the walls like so many branches from a World Tree. On the wall closest to her she sees the shiny Conn-Pod Loading System frame, slick and gleaming gently in the seaside glow rippling down from the skylights up above, and to the left and right, entire moving walkways that clatter distantly as the maintenance team rolls carts this way and that across the hangar, impossibly high up. In the left corner of the Northern wall, an array of blue-tinted windows glints in the misty morning shadows, surrounded by masses of coils and beams. LOCCENT Mission Control. And the Jaegers themselves...

Oh, April grins, the Jaegers.

Gunner Nebula and Lotus Blaze are two of the finest in Mark-6 Jaeger technology, and they tower over April like the titans of the old epics. In their red and gold stripes, April thinks, they look oddly heroic even as they rest in the dim, buzzing white noise of the hangar. They rest upon moving platforms, ready to be rolled gently out into the sea at a moment's notice.

And really, who can blame April for wanting a closer look? She glances around furtively to make sure that no one is watching- only a few custodians and hired hands are milling about at the rear, sharing contraband cigarettes, and the crew doesn't pay her a lick of attention. Satisfied, she tiptoes over to the feet of Lotus Blaze and reaches out a hand, leaning far over the railings to just graze her fingertips across the scratched metal-

And then suddenly a siren blares out across the Shatterdome, and April nearly jumps clean out of her skin.

Before she can start to really get into her panic, her heart leaping up into her throat and a cold sweat breaking across her forehead, a tinny computerized voice calls out across the Landing Bay, _"Alert. Category 2 Kaiju. Alert. Category 2 Kaiju. All Hands to East Bay."_

The hangar comes to life, then. All around the floor the loitering workers spring into action, the laborers hauling their supplies out of the way and the technicians pouring in from every angle. April whips her head around, trying to get her bearings, and tries to find the closest route out of the Bay, and possibly into a vantage point higher-up. It slowly dawns on her that this is real-

-it's really happening-

-she gets to see a real, actual drop on her very first day at work-

-the luck of the Irish is finally kicking in-

-and she spins on her heels and pushes and nudges past the sea of uniformed crew workers to hitch a ride up one of the groaning metal elevators onto a series of walkways five stories up, where she can see a pathway that hopefully connects back to the hallways leading to LOCCENT. When she gets to the elevator, she hangs on to the rail and gives a sheepish smile to the techies who shoot her unimpressed looks, and she surveys the energy below with interest.

But as the latches on the impossibly huge doors slowly begin to screech open with echoing bellows and Jeeps roll across the floor like trails of beetles skittering through the ants, April spots something in the corner of her eye and presses against the side of the elevator, fixated.

One of the laborers, a short young man with the brim of a beat-up brown cap firmly yanked over his face, is running with a speed not unlike a professional athlete in the opposite direction of the other custodians. April wonders why she's so suddenly aware of the young man until she realizes with a start that he had been milling about at the back of her lift down- he hadn't been moving any of her belongings or equipment like the scruffy, annoying one named Jones, but had only leaned into the back corner with the cap casting a shadow over his face.

Had he been tailing her? Why hadn't she noticed? And where is he headed to now?

The guy in the cap zigzags across the hangar floor and eventually skirts over to the Northern wall, where (to April's intense disappointment) he disappears into the shadows, where a few discreet unmarked doors are scattered. The elevator creaks to a halt and then the technicians behind April push past her to run across a precarious-looking metal walkway towards yet another elevator on the other side of the Bay. April clambers out just in time for the doors to shut behind her, and gingerly she begins making her way up a set of (worrisomely small) stairs, higher and higher and higher.

In a moment, her cell phone rings, deep in one of the inside pockets of her coat, against her small recording device and pocket notebook. Without missing a beat she holds it up to her ear and chirps into it, "Hey, Charles."

"April, get to LOCCENT _now_ ," Pennington says, sounding harassed, as if he were speaking with gritted teeth. "Where are you? Are you still in the Bay?"

"Headed up to Mission Control now. I'm somewhere on a staircase on the-" -she glances at the paint on the wall- "West Wall, Level Five."

"Head up into Level Seven and turn left into any hallway with a red strip of light at the top. Keep going forward till you hit it. Big signs, big door, can't miss it. You haven't got clearance yet, but I'll let you in when I get there," Pennington gasps, and April realizes that he's running. The thought shouldn't be as funny as it is. "It's only a Category 2 this time, but that doesn't mean it isn't really dangerous. They're sending out both Gunner and Lotus. So don't do anything stupid."

"Who, me?" April cracks a grin, and hangs up before Pennington can say another word. She finds the hallway and races North as fast as she can. Pennington didn't lie- the signs and door really are big and unmistakable. April considers waiting around the door for half a second before she tosses the idea away and approaches one of the technicians heading inside.

She schools her expression into something resembling her most hated high school Physics teacher, grave and somber and altogether looking too important to be anywhere so lowly as a classroom (or, in this case, the New York Shatterdome). "May Williams. Agent May Williams to you. I expect that I was supposed to be given a _working_ keycard, for all the bonuses in this year's budget?"

The technician ushers her in without a word and starts calibrating something-or-other to the left.

April tries not to marvel at LOCCENT, lest she be given away before Pennington arrives. The screens light everything in a dull blue glow, displays and charts blipping across the windows overlooking the Bay. The specialists sit at gleaming command panels with mugs steaming beside them, and casually, when no one's watching, she sticks her hand into her pocket and flicks her recording device on.

She removes her hand just in time as the doors slide open behind her and Pennington rushes in.

"Goddammit. This was absolutely _not_ supposed to happen on your first day here."

April isn't really listening, and watches in fascination as the main technician engages the Conn-Pod drop with practiced ease.

"No cameras? Isn't this the perfect opportunity to tell the world what good the new Dome is doing for the world?"

April expects Pennington to roll his eyes and berate April for grabbing at any story she can get her hands on.

Instead, he just shuffles his feet and looks away. "Not this time."

Now April's listening.

"Why?"

"Just watch the drop, you busybody," gripes Pennington, and when the head technician calls out into his mic, "Engaging Pilot-to-Pilot Protocol," April can only shut up and watch as the screen fills up with neurological synapses and long, scrolling data charts. Two pairs of brains, starting to sync up with humanity's finest weapons, gods of metal that fought with monsters and won.

The entire Dome seems to reverberate with energy as the Bay begins to scream, metal-on-metal and deep, cavernous roars bouncing off the walls. April's transfixed- past the jittering digital displays, she can see the dark silhouette of Lotus Blaze being rolled out of the hangar, with Gunner Nebula to the far left revving up in preparation to follow.

"Lotus launched. You ladies ready?"

April hears the tinny voices reply with a snort, alarmingly in unison, _"Ready as always, sir."_

"Alright. Starting Neural Handshake in fifteen seconds. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve-"

The displays start to meld across the main screen, and April can see the two brain displays clearly marked 'Left: Kavita Eastman' and 'Right: Petra Laird' starting to pulse in perfect rhythm. Under her feet, Lotus Blaze seems to buzz and hum with the same heartbeat as its core comes to life, and there's a rumble almost like the beginnings of an earthquake as it's lowered into the sea.

And then the pulse on-screen evens out into a steady wave, glowing strong against the silhouette in the water.

"Neural Handshake holding," says the main technician, and the pilots growl, _"Right hemisphere calibrating."_

_"Left calibrating. We good?"_

"You're good. Now get out of the way, Gunner's gonna drop."

 _"We want our own room,"_ says Laird with a laugh, and April's utterly engaged, staring at Lotus's gleaming silhouette as it marches out, until-

There's another rumble under her feet, and LOCCENT seems to tremble again, as if Gunner Nebula is being lowered out of the Bay- but the Conn-Pod has barely been dropped, and it's still being rolled out past Mission Control.

What?

Pennington quickly looks at April's face and shrugs, "Must be an aftershock," but April doesn't miss the way his eyes dart around the room, and how the technicians suddenly look wary of her, as if she's going to bolt.

She stands straight, scanning the displays quickly for any clue, but no one in the room acknowledges the second quake, carrying on as if it didn't happen. April waits silently for Gunner Nebula to launch, and when it follows Lotus Blaze into the sea she feels the same rumble beneath her feet again.

"Charles, that wasn't an aftershock."

"The machinery does that, it settles after the launches," says Pennington nervously, and pats her on the back awkwardly. "You'll get used to it. Say, we should get out of here, let them do their work. You can come up on the next drop, take some pictures, do an interview afterwards-"

And then, only a few seconds after the little quake from Gunner's launch, April feels it again- LOCCENT rumbles with a pulse that she now knows is unmistakably from a Jaeger drop.

Pennington attempts a shrug. It doesn't work. "See?"

"… Sure." April straightens up, drawing the collar of her yellow coat around her neck once more and heading out. She gives Pennington double finger guns, and casually ribs, "Guess I don't know as much about Jaegers as I thought. Don't go on telling people that, now. I like to seem omniscient. So did you get all of my stuff into my room yet, or did you forget it all in the hallways?"

"The movers got it all in," says Pennington with obvious relief, ushering her with one hand on her back out of LOCCENT and down the red-lit hallways. "C'mon, we can watch the fight on the displays in the Cantina instead."

April furtively memorizes the entire route down.

Everyone in the Cantina is fixated on the triple-wide screens dominating an entire wall by the time April and Pennington arrive, and all of them cheer and stomp their feet when Gunner lands its first punch into the Category 2's massive, ugly skull. April notes with interest that this one is enormously fat and covered in boils, which burst upon contact with Gunner's fists and splatter enormous quantities of Kaiju Blue into the water. The Kaiju roars at Gunner Nebula and locks it into a poor attempt at a grapple, but Lotus Blaze comes at it from behind and flips it nearly on to its side, displacing what seems to be half the Atlantic with a massive spray.

It's all a little cartoony. April leans against the wall and frowns. Something's not quite right. The cheers swell around her as the entire Dome celebrates the way Lotus's cannon lands a solid blow and bursts an especially large boil on the Kaiju's ugly hide, but somehow, to her trained, careful eye, the camera work seems… off.

The entire thing is being monitored by some of the most talented helicopter cameramen in the air, but why is the image focused almost solely from the East and North? Some of the shots seem strangely centered, the action crowded into corners, too zoomed-in, at strange angles.

It's almost as if they're trying to censor the fight a little bit. It's as if they're trying not to show something on camera.

April doesn't pay any more attention to the fight itself, but fixes her gaze only on the top right corner of the main screen, suddenly suspicious. Every nerve on edge, she waits for a clue, a hint, anything to spring up, and finds with no small amount of irritation that the wildly shaking camera and the senseless sprays of seawater obscure almost anything that isn't Gunner Nebula, Lotus Blaze or the Category 2 Kaiju. But she waits, leaning forward a little, goosebumps running up and down her arms, until-

-there!

A flash of gunmetal and camouflage green, and then the camera quickly cuts away to a completely different shot.

And then April realizes, with horror, fascination and a bubbling elation in her stomach, that the cameras are doing it on purpose. They're using the action to distract whoever may be watching from something else going on out there, in the sea, at the same time as Gunner and Lotus's battle.

There's another fight going on, and everyone in the Shatterdome is pretending it isn't happening.

There are at least two other Jaegers out on the Atlantic Rim.

Thing is, only Gunner Nebula and Lotus Blaze are supposed to be housed in New York, and all twenty-two Jaegers in existence are accounted for, each in their own Shatterdomes across the world, on every coastal shore.

The other two Jaegers aren't supposed to exist.

She was right all along.

April's heart begins thumping wildly in her chest, and behind a cheering and clapping Charles Pennington, she smiles.

This is it. This is her big story. This is the first inkling of the truth. This is it.

-

"It's actually one Category 2 and two Category 3s this time. Gunner and Lotus get the 2 for the cameras, we take care of the 3s."

"Okay, so what's the arrangement today, Fearless Leader?"

"You and Don in Shadow Sentinel. Mikey, you're with me in Shadow Guardian."

"Woohoo! That means I get to try out the new plasma cutter! I call right side this time."

"Fine. Be careful out there, guys."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

"Raph-"

"Wait, Leo. Why are we in Sentinel again? That was the arrangement last time. Splinter says we should keep rotating to even out our synapse link habits-"

"This is the arrangement today. That's final."

"… All right."

"Are you guys seriously not worried about the news lady?"

"O'Neil? Nah. I was right behind her the whole time she was down in the Bay and she didn't notice me tailing her once. She's kinda cute, I guess, but none too smart. Guess the whole Superspy thing is just a gimmick."

"I dunno, I wouldn't count on that, Raph."

"Why?"

"I heard she's only here so the PADC can keep an eye on her. And y'know this is how she blew the whistle on Dynacorp and the Callahan Union and the Choi-gate Scandal, right? She got in pretending to give in to bribery and then figured everything out based on clues-"

"We can gossip after we save the world, okay, guys?"

"Awww yeah. Time to pull out the big guns. Pilots Slash, Stab, Strike and Smack, ready for the Drop."

"Mikey, we are NOT going to use those code names."

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Unbeta'd, and for that I sincerely apologize.
> 
> This fic has been edited slightly from its original draft, to fit into its own chronology. The change is not drastic and it will not affect the way it was meant to be read.
> 
> Even if it's not made explicitly clear now, most of this fic's Turtles canon will be derived from the first, second and fourth films, and drawn heavily from the 2k3 universe. And if you're thinking, 'Hm. This is kinda light on Turtles for a Turtle-centric Pacific Rim AU so far,' then fear not. Though April is more than just a narrator here, she and our Bros in Half-Shells are all the protagonists.
> 
> Any and all comments are precious to me, so please leave one if you can!
> 
> -


	3. Brains and Brawn

-

As the siren hums through the walls and the tension rises like the tide (slowly, surely, like breathing) Donatello grabs his Drivesuit off the wall and peels out of his sweater in one smooth glide.

Behind him, on a bench, Michelangelo struggles with his boots, as always. "I swear they didn't measure my feet right, guys. This is so stupid. We ought to have technicians too."

The Hamato brothers roll their eyes, knowing full well that their designated 'youngest' is only having a bit of a joke but long since jaded on the subject. They've never had technicians willingly come within five feet of them. They can dress themselves and help each other suit up just as quickly as the pampered official pilots can. What's so difficult about clicking a bunch of plates together? It almost helps them psych up for the fight, a little.

Donatello picks up one of the drills mounted on the wall, tests the coil for springiness, and motions for Leonardo to turn around. The Leader wordlessly allows Donatello to screw his armor into place and to snap the spine circuit into the polycarbonate that smooths over his back, over the mottled, leathery flesh and hard keratin scutes that dust over his shoulder blades in ugly patches, melding into his human flesh and making him (all of them) monsters. It's almost like their armor is meant to try and save them from the Kaiju, and from themselves.

Leonardo turns him around and helps him suit up the rest of the way while Raphael and Michelangelo struggle beside them.

Donatello is many things, but he isn't stupid.

Leonardo and Raphael aren't talking.

Again.

He suppresses a sigh and gives Leonardo a fist bump in silent thanks for the help, coming up behind his brothers to reach into the final cabinet for their helmets, marked in simple spray-painted stripes of color at the forehead. When they're fully suited up, the electronic signals blossoming from their spinal circuit and all throughout their matte black and camouflage green suits, the only thing that differentiates them from each other is the color of the visor that lights up in bright LED displays of blue, red, purple and orange.

It is here in the Drivesuit Room that the brothers separate into two adjacent Conn-Pods. The four of them nod to each other, Leonardo and Michelangelo taking off to the right of the narrow, metal-lined walkway, and Donatello trailing behind a silent Raphael into the left. Shadow Sentinel boots up with a low whine and distant gears shifting and grinding along the chasm below them.

Donatello doesn't speak a word until the automatic pilot lock position is engaged and the mics are turned on. For some reason or another, it's easier to talk with Raphael through the electric connection than through the scant feet between them, especially when Donatello isn't sure if Raphael is going to snap at him or not.

"We ought to try that new formation today."

To his right, Raphael just grunts, and then, after a pause, answers, "Y'think it'll be effective? Fearless said these were two Category 3s."

Donatello looks away, pretending to be highly interested in his gauntlet. "So you're saying we just do what we do best and punch out the bastards?"

From the corner of his periphery, Donatello sees Raphael give a little shrug. He'd be tense and ready to spring if something really was bothering him- it's a bit of a relief to see that the hothead brother isn't in a dark mood over some fight that Donatello hadn't known about. He rolls his shoulders a little and peeks at where Donatello is fiddling with his armor. "What I'm saying is, what's Brainiac think we should do? Do we got wiggle room to try out a new technique today or what?"

"I think we should be able to handle it either way, and you know Sensei would be happy if we came out of this fight stronger than before," Donatello smiles, straightening back up, fears assuaged. The squirming in his stomach eases away at Raphael's familiar jab, a gentle patch of roughness covering up his inherent trust in Donatello's brain. After all, whatever Raphael's too embarrassed to say out loud, Donatello will see in the Drift anyway. "We should try it out."

Raphael nods and clicks the audio com link on. "Shadow Sentinel, ready for the drop."

A tinny, metallic voice grunts into the Hamato brothers' ears, _"Secure Conn-Pod. Engaging drop."_

Somewhere behind the door, a team of technicians finally scurries into the drop shaft and locks the Hamatos into place. A faceless voice says, _"Conn-Pod door lock secure,"_ and Donatello barely has any time to idly wonder if their technicians will ever actually talk to them face-to-face before Raphael orders, "Release," and the Conn-Pod is whirring down the shaft.

The blood starts pumping in Donatello's ears.

"Yeah!" he screams despite himself, and to his right, Raphael laughs, throaty and low. "Get psyched, Genius! Let's do this!"

As soon as the Conn-Pod engages and the link is confirmed, LOCCENT North warns them, _"Engaging Pilot-to-Pilot Protocol,"_ while Shadow Sentinel begins to throb and pulse around them. Their Jaeger stands tall and proud even in the cramped North Bay (which doesn't exist on any official floor plan of the New York Shatterdome) it shares with its twin, Shadow Guardian, which has already launched into the Ocean, lying in wait for its partner. Donatello peers through his purple visor at the shifting view screen as the hangar door slowly unlocks, shafts of pale blue morning light filtering through across the Atlantic and throwing Shadow Sentinel into unexpected brightness.

The moment Shadow Sentinel is lowered into the water and the world seems to quake with its weight, Raphael clicks the audio link on and confirms, "Sentinel ready and aligned."

Instead of their head technician, a lower, gentler, more familiar voice filters through the link, and Donatello smiles. Sensei's on deck.

_"Prepare for Neural Handshake. My sons, be wary of this attack and never forget what you are fighting for. Do you remember your new katas?"_

"Yeah, Sensei," Raphael grumbles at Donatello's right. "Donny thinks we should try 'em out here. "

 _"Two Cagetory 3s is nothing to scoff at,"_ warns the voice, but warmly, like a parent would chide a small, headstrong child. _"I trust you will keep safe."_

In tandem, Donatello and Raphael nod, "Yes, Sensei."

_Neural Handshake… Initiating-_

The Drift.

Leonardo describes the initial pull as silence- like meditating, he says, like a moment of peace. But Donatello knows that it isn't the case for most people. Leonardo's one of those freaky receptors, the kind that can blank out and just support his partner's brain. Michelangelo says it's fun, like the first drop on a roller coaster, with the gravity working at his eyes and stomach and rattling his teeth. Raphael never speaks of it unless he's piss-drunk, and then he'd admit that to him, the pull is the same as the blind surge of adrenaline that comes before landing a good solid punch.

To Donatello, the pull of the Drift is like a dream and a nightmare rolled into one. It's like he's drowning in darkness, like he's being pushed into the light, like he doesn't understand anything, like he knows the secrets of the universe.

The white-hot energy surges through his body as the Pons system engages every neural synapse he has to offer, enveloping him in a fleeting moment of-

-clarity? Confusion? His brain is on overload, and each and every time he Drifts with one of his brothers Donatello can't help but try to capture that moment in his memory, but the strain is always too much and before the spasms die down he is always lost in the pure sensation coursing through him.

The memories and emotions flood through his brain, some shared, some new, some as familiar as the back of his own hand-

-the Hamato brothers are seven, Michelangelo breaks his arm falling off of a rafter and Splinter grows quiet when all four of them simultaneously clutch at their elbows and howl in pain-

-they are twelve and the red, leathery stripes running across their faces from ear to ear are getting darker, more prominent, and Raphael's mood grows darker every day-

-they are eight and Donatello assembles his first Pons system from scratch, and is caught by Splinter before nearly attempting to drift with their pet cat-

-they are fifteen and Raphael lovingly saves up for his motorcycle-

-they are fourteen and Raphael sits in the tub as the water pools around his ankles, running his fingers over his shoulder and feeling the edge of the leathery keratin patches fade into tanned human flesh-

-it is yesterday and Leonardo and Raphael have an argument while Donatello and Michelangelo sneak off to play in the arcade, and Raphael genuinely throws a punch-

-wait, _what?_

Donatello feels himself getting metaphorically kicked off of that particular rabbit before he even notices that he'd been chasing it, and he knows that Raphael is pissed at him without a word said between them. Their minds linked in perfect synchronization, they are one- one unit, half rage bubbling beneath the surface and half morbid curiosity, numbers crunching and figures balancing.

What was that he just saw?

Donatello barely listens as the technician mutters, "Neural Handshake, strong and holding."

"Raph-"

"Shut up. Right hemisphere calibrating."

He bites down the urge to make a sarcastic comment, and mumbles, "Left calibrating."

Shadow Sentinel steps through the ocean, camouflage-green and matte black paint blending into the cityscape like an unseen protector, joining its waiting brother into battle.

The four-way audio com link blips on, and Michelangelo's voice teases, "What's wrong, guys? Little slow this morning?"

"I'll show you slow, meathead," growls Raphael, already engaging the K-Stunner Warheads in Sentinel's chest, the entire chassis rumbling in response.

Donatello forces himself to concentrate on the fight. Right now, protecting New York from two Category 3 Kaiju while letting Lotus Blaze and Gunner Nebula divert the spotlight with the Category 2 is the priority.

The questions can come later.

-

'Later' turns out to be 'at the worst possible moment'.

-

"Whoooo!" screams Michelangelo through the audio link as Shadow Guardian twists around to land a solid punch at a Category 3's general throat area. He laughs when it shrieks, splashing saltwater and debris into the Conn-Pod's visor.

"Easy, Mikey," Leonardo murmurs. "The camera crew's pointing Southwest right now, we don't want too much spray."

Michelangelo retaliates by leveraging Guardian's impressive weight against the charging Kaiju, effectively battering it bodily away from the direction of Gunner Nebula and Lotus Blaze's fight. Donatello feels rather than sees the impact- the low thud coursing across the seabed and up Sentinel's legs into his own Conn-Pod, and through the four-way Drift Hangover that never truly went away throughout the Turtles' lives. As the Kaiju slides through the low tide, colliding with the second and knocking them both sideways into the ocean, Donatello sees Guardian lower its knees and open up its chest, and through the PONS link, Raphael knows what's going to happen as soon as Donatello figures it out, and Donatello hears him chuckle low into the mic, almost too low to hear, "Aw, this is gonna be good."

Before the Kaiju can stand up, six WMB2x90 K-Stunner warheads launch out of Guardian's chest cavity, and with a flash and bang quicker than the eye can see, both Kaiju reel back and roar with angry-looking open wounds gaping and leaking Blue on their sides. One rolls for cover and Leonardo murmurs something to Michelangelo over the com link as the barrels collapse back into Shadow Guardian's chassis, and warns to Sentinel, "Keep an eye on the other one," before charging at it.

In a moment, the second Category 3 Kaiju slinks out of its defensive position, a stout-looking leathery beast with teeth undoubtedly designed for ripping through metal and now in an intense fury mode.

Donatello immediately realizes that the best way to block the oncoming blow is to somehow break its momentum from its head, taking advantage of its weaker neck.

Raphael feels the realization as soon as Donatello has it, and moves before Donatello has the chance to think about moving.

In unison, Donatello and Raphael surge forwards as it launches itself out of its low crouch, locking it into a grip and holding it by the antler-like protrusions coming out of its skull. While Guardian beats the first Kaiju bloody, chasing it further North with echoing clangs and roars, Sentinel twists its great arms and slams the second beast into the water, struggling against its wild thrashing to pound it into the shallow seabed.

It's strong. But Sentinel is stronger.

It's now that they can make a game-making blow. As the Drift pulses tight and deep through them, Donatello knows that Raphael's drunk on Donatello's latticework of brainwaves, connected in almost inhumanly fast and extensive facets and synapses in explosions of calculation. It's the same the other way around, too. Here, in the Drift with Raphael, Donatello feels braver, more powerful- the blood pounds through him and he can't tell if it's his own or Raphael's coursing through his veins, fueling him in a passion he could never let himself feel when he is only Donatello. It compels him to move forward, in an ardor that burns bright inside him that's all fury, all bloodlust, all Raphael.

Across the Conn-Pod, Donatello and Raphael glance at each other and grin in simultaneous flashes of white teeth beneath clear Plexi visors and the thin, leathery red and green stripes that dust across their cheeks from ear to ear.

With a twist of their wrists, the control interface hums with life and the impassive, robotic intelligence unit drones, _"SAI."_

The entire Jaeger buckles down as the metal groans and vibrates around the brothers, shifting and sliding as the titanium plates on Shadow Sentinel's arms hike back to reveal two enormous gleaming BW-22 titanium and carbon fiber tridents that lock into place on the backs of each wrist. They're perfect for skewering Kaiju through. Donatello ought to know. He designed them.

With a mutual cry, Michelangelo laughing with excitement in their ears at the unsheathing, Donatello and Raphael throw their backs into the punch, the world swaying with the shock of the impact ripping through the world like the way the SAI units stab through thick Kaiju flesh, goring the side of its neck and emptying a spray of Kaiju Blue into the water. In the same movement, Sentinel pushes back and braces itself for the inevitable trade-off for their powerful blow- the Kaiju rears back and headbutts it to the side, and its all the pilots can do to stay upright even as its feet drag through the silt and sand on the seabed floor.

This is not unexpected.

The series of lunges and hits that come afterwards are definitely unexpected.

Somehow the Kaiju is still fighting back even as it leaks Blue from the widening rip in its throat and its mouth, and with every blow exchanged Donatello grows more and more unsure. Later, he thinks to himself dimly even as his brain rides on the waves of Raphael's powerful, intense impulses, he'll have to review the data on this Kaiju under more heavy scrutiny than he can with his brain alone. It's strange- according to the numbers, it ought to be at least slowing down…

Caught in a grapple, Donatello feels his jaws trying to unclench themselves and hears Raphael strain from his right, "Donny, the formation."

Right.

Donatello takes a deep breath, eyes scanning wildly for a shift in the Kaiju's stance for the perfect moment to strike, and spits, "Okay. In three- two-"

But through the comm Leonardo's voice suddenly cuts, sounding almost wrung-out, "No."

Donatello and Raphael manage a simultaneous, "What?" before the Kaiju slams them down into the water. For a moment, the Conn-Pod is almost entirely submerged, and Sentinel begins to struggle against the frantic thrashing of the Kaiju, somehow still horrifyingly active after the injuries it has sustained.

"Leo- Mikey- help-"

"Don't use the new kata against these guys," Leonardo yells over the crackling com link. "We can't risk it. They're more tenacious than-"

"Shut up, _Fearless._ You don't get to make that call," Raphael suddenly growls, and Donatello can barely feel the startled tightening of his own chest over the cold fury that suddenly floods into him from Raphael.

If he weren't sure of Shadow Sentinel's calibrations (because they had been his own work), and if his Drift partner weren't Raphael, he'd be afraid that the link is malfunctioning.

But it isn't.

Raphael really does feel like that. Sorrow, and satisfaction, and longing, and- rage.

"What did you say, Raph?" comes Leonardo's voice, suddenly cold, and Donatello nearly squeaks when Raphael's physical synapses suddenly override his own through the PONS system and single-handedly shucks the Kaiju off of them. He manages to take half of the neural load once more before the blip even registers on their console, but suddenly Donatello feels nothing but Raphael's blood pumping red-hot flames through his body, and flashes of his own cold panic coming through-

"I said SHUT UP!" roars Raphael, and then-

-everything's…-

-static-

-before the second Breach, the air used to be sweeter-

-Sensei?-

-Sentinel's arms are around the Kaiju's neck, throttling it until something snaps and it doesn't move at all-

-but Donatello isn't doing anything-

"-re you guys okay-"

"-nny, snap out o-"

Donatello comes to just as he sees the last remaining Kaiju leap out of the water straight for Sentinel as it lies prone in the water, and he feels Raphael at his side once more- the low heat of his residual anger and burning panic coursing across the Drift. Even before his own brain comes back online he moves his left arm upwards in perfect unison with Raphael, and they beat the Kaiju off and stagger into an upright position.

Shadow Sentinel and Shadow Guardian crouch at either side of the remaining Kaiju, towering titans of gunmetal and camouflage green around a snarling, mountainous monster from the depths.

Leonardo's voice crackles from the com link, "Donatello, what was-"

"Raph, what the _hell?_ " Donatello bites, shaking with adrenaline and fear and anger- his own, slowly creeping in through his steadily climbing clarity.

"Uh, broskys- the Kaiju-"

Raphael doesn't even have to say it aloud- Donatello can feel it all through the Drift, jittering through his brain like over-caffeinated fingers across three keyboards at once- but he snarls, "Oh, so you're suddenly okay with Leo being a control freak when he's worrying about your delicate ass?"

"What the hell was that back there? You lost control-"

"He did _what?_ " Leonardo growls.

"Guys-"

"If you and Leo are gonna have a bitch fight about nothing again, at least keep it out of the field and out of my goddamned brain-"

"You shut your mouth, Don-"

"Don't be an asshole, Raph. Is there or is there not a problem with your Neural-"

"Guys, the _FUCKING KAIJU!_ "

Michelangelo's words finally ring through the circle of Leonardo and Raphael's rage and Donatello's panic, punctuated by a loud, screeching roar as the Kaiju rears back and leaps at Shadow Guardian- and for a moment, all sense of order is lost to a barrage of screams, blind punches and the ripping of Kaiju flesh.

Shadow Guardian's whirring, cylindrical CHUCK attachment finally lands the finishing blow, shattering through the Kaiju's spine with a violent smash from up high, and even before the victory properly registers Donatello chokes out, "Why did you-"

Until a sharp pain suddenly hits Donatello from deep in his core, a mishmash of mental strain and a sudden flash of savage fury that rips through him. Suddenly, without any warning, it's like half of him is being violently torn away, like half of what he thinks and feels and remembers is violently rent from the split right down the middle of his soul.

Everything around him goes into Emergency Disengage Mode, the metal casing around his boots unlocking themselves and the screws into the back of his Drivesuit popping off on their own. Blindly, only vaguely aware that he's screaming, he reaches up to fumble at the helmet that is suddenly suffocating him alive.

Raphael jumps to his side and helps him disengage the helmet latch without a word, and Donatello barely gets it off of his head before lurching into a corner and throwing up painfully on to the Conn-Pod deck floor.

"Shit," Raphael mutters, kneeling beside him and awkwardly attempting to hold back Donatello's sweat-soaked, overlong hair like the girls in the movies when he slinks down to retch some more.

Donatello doesn't hear him.

He has read about being forcibly ejected out of a Drift before- but the thought of having been kicked out by Raphael hurts him more than the physical pain of his brain throbbing like it's going to burst, and the keen loss of the connection wrecks him from the inside out.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the meat of it real soon.


	4. Class is Pain 101

-

Raphael only realizes that Leonardo or Michelangelo cut the four-way audio com link until the helicopters arrive to airlift Sentinel's pilots back to the Shatterdome along with an entire team to tow back their Jaeger. He doesn't know if he should be angry or relieved, and settles on exhausted apathy instead.

The medics in the helicopter skittishly putter around the back of the helicopter, never looking the brothers in the eye or speaking more than five terse words to them at a time, and frankly, for the moment, Raphael is okay with that. He concentrates on peering out of the corner of his periphery at the way Donatello swills out the inside of his mouth with half the contents of the water bottle handed to him, staring out the side and over New York's glistening noon and steadfastly avoiding Raphael's gaze. It's obvious that Brainiac has questions, but his brain is still recovering from the shock of being forcibly ejected out of the Drift, and even just thinking about that gives Raphael a sour taste in his own mouth.

Drifting with Michelangelo is actually kinda fun, if a little irritating. Drifting with Leonardo- well, that's something else entirely. But everyone agrees that sharing a brain with Donatello is a fucking ride all in its own, a heady rush while joyriding through a genuine genius's brain, all dangerously sharp calculations and synapses firing at a million lightyears a second. Raphael knows that even when he ribs the guy about it, they're all indebted to their genius brother- his brain is invaluable, and he went and gave it the figurative punch in the figurative face.

Raphael opens his mouth to speak, remembers the frightened thoughts that filtered through the cracks in their straining Drift just before the split, and clamps it shut again, suddenly drowning in red-hot shame.

Splinter's gonna kill him, and if he doesn't, Raphael'll kill himself, probably.

He can't live after probably wrecking what tumulus relationship he has with Donatello.

The thought of it hurts so much that Raphael even forgets to be embarrassed at the sight of Shadow Guardian already in its place at the back of the secret North bay hangar, being hosed down of the Kaiju Blue sheen on its exterior. It's been years since any of them needed to be airlifted out of the fights, and even longer since they've required an Emergency Disengage, but even imagining how the silent and avoidant shadow crew will inevitably judge his performance is insignificant compared to his own personal internal battle between the ebbing waves of leftover anger and self-hatred.

Raphael grits his teeth and chases that thought from his head. The helicopter lands on the tiny Landing Pad on the hidden North Tower and before he has the chance to even tap Donatello on the shoulder the egghead is rushed none-too-gently off into the med bay without so much as an inquiry about how he's feeling. Something catches in Raphael's throat at the way his legs wobble beneath him as he staggers after the medics, and tears his eyes away to catch at least a second of alone time to gather his thoughts and try to calm down before he even attempts to talk to Donatello.

He half-expects Leonardo and Michelangelo to accost him from around every corner to confront him about the sudden Drift disconnection, but he knows that their 'fearless leader' would have held Michelangelo by the scruff of his collar the second they touched down in Guardian to be properly decontaminated and debriefed. This gives him a little flare of hope in his chest- if Sensei's occupied with them, perhaps he can take this chance to sneak off on his own and run away forever after he inevitably botches his apology.

Peeling off as many plated layers of his Drivesuit as he can with just his fingers and dropping them on the floor haphazardly as he walks, Raphael makes the quickest decontamination run of his entire pilot career and practically finishes scrubbing down in less time than it took to actually suit up. Shrugging back into his scuffed-up canvas trousers and thin white A-shirt, he bares his teeth and growls at the poor technician holding up a debriefing clipboard and mentally runs through what he hopes will be a suitable apology when he hears familiar soft, padding footsteps behind him.

"Raphael."

He stops dead in his tracks and grits his teeth, staring miserably at the floor with water still dripping from his black hair. "Hey, Sensei. Couldn't this wait 'till _after_ I make sure Don ain't sick cause ah me?"

"You will listen now," says his father, and Raphael slowly turns, head bowed, towards the figure standing in the shadows of the doorway. His normally impassive and inscrutable face, lined and worn with age beneath a speckled brown-and-grey topknot, is firm as he approaches Raphael and motions for him to follow with his simple wooden cane. Wordlessly, Raphael trudges along Master Splinter's heels, making their way down the dark, echoing metal hallways as father and penitent son.

"My father and Master's first rule was 'Possess the right thinking'," says Master Splinter gently, unreadable and calm. "Only then can one receive the gifts of strength, knowledge, and peace. I have tried to channel your anger, Raphael, but more remains. Anger clouds the mind. Turned inward, it is an unconquerable enemy. You are unique among your brothers, for you choose to face this enemy… alone."

Raphael bites back a desperate noise, but they have come to the emergency med bay right beside the loading dock and Drivesuit Room, and there's no telling if his voice will carry inside. Hands in fists trembling at his side, Raphael can feel himself start to heat up at the cheeks, but then Splinter's gnarled, warm hand comes up to cup at his cheek, and when he looks up there is warmth in his father's eyes, an infinite sadness, and love, painful and gut-wrenching.

"But as you face this anger, do not forget them, and do not forget _me_. I am here, my son."

"S-S-Sensei-"

"I will see Donatello when you two have made peace. Go now."

Raphael bows jerkily and nearly swivels on his toes to enter the med bay, and when the medics inside part like the Red Sea in the wake of his undoubtedly red and terrifying face he finds Donatello's bed in short order. To his immense relief, the resident genius is fully conscious and in the process of removing the various bits of neural imaging equipment from around his head, sitting barefoot on the corner of the bed and glowering like he really doesn't want to be there any longer. When he hears Raphael clear his throat, he looks up, and then immediately schools his face into a pretty good impression of Leonardo's habitual unflappable expression.

"Hey."

"… Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. Nothin' my egghead head couldn't handle. But let's not try that again. And not just in the near future. I mean _ever._ "

It all comes out in a rush. "Look, I- I'm sorry I was bein' a jerk earlier. It's just that- he _doesn't understand_ that I- he- And, I don't got the right to go asshole on you just 'cause you're in the same Conn-Pod."

Something in Donatello's expression breaks, and somehow, he seems to soften around the edges. "You don't have to say anything, Raph."

"Yeah, well, I kinda do. I dunno what happened out there today. I ain't lost control like that before. At least, in one ah the Jaegers." Raphael sits gingerly on the other side of the bed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, knowing he shouldn't get too close. "I didn't… I didn't mean to kick you outta my head. It just happened. I got so mad at Leo I forgot to be a good co-pilot, or a good brother."

Donatello is quiet for a moment, but then he straightens his back and says, almost more to the air around the room than to Raphael, "Don't you two ever think for a moment that Mikey and I don't really like how it is for us either? But we don't ever let it come between us and the mission." He peels the last of the EEG machine's electrodes from his temple.

Raphael resists the urge to flinch and mutters, "Well, ain't you guys the paragons ah peacekeepin'. Look, I wouldn't ah gotten so mad if Leo weren't goin' around bein' such a fucking bitch nowadays."

"I could've been wrong about the combat strategy."

"C'mon. When're you ever wrong?"

"About Kaiju statistics? Two point four seven one percent of the time in the past year," Donatello laughs quietly to himself, and almost reaches out to give Raphael a punch on the arm before retracting it and grimacing at himself, probably thinking about how he's still sweaty and most likely a little irradiated from being inside Sentinel.

"Which means Leo was just- he was doing that thing he does again, where being the boss and keeping us all obedient is more important than trying to get stronger."

"Look, what matters is that we won, and we're still alive, okay? I get it. The Drift is seriously close. Insanely close. We all deserve privacy and we don't ever get it. I won't chase any more rabbits if it's got to do with Leo, okay? Just… You guys are being buttheads and you have to at least try to keep it out of the field or else…"

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah," says Donatello, but he opts to smile his crooked little half-smile at Raphael instead of hammering the point home, which Raphael is intensely grateful for. "A little. But it's okay. I'll get you back in the dojo later, or maybe in the Kwoon if we can sneak in after the Academy kids go to sleep. We're cool."

Raphael doesn't think they're done for a minute, but he mumbles, "We cool," and gets up, wishing away the uncomfortable feeling of an apology left unsatisfactory that settles into his bones. He exits the emergency med bay without looking back, nods to Splinter as he passes him to enter, and barely makes it five steps away from the door before the skin at the back of his neck starts to prickle and he grits through his teeth, "You can stop stalking me now."

Out of the shadows, Leonardo slinks down from a beam on the ceiling and rounds into him. "Did you apologize to Don?"

Raphael ignores him, thinking about what Splinter said, thinking about how skinny and hurt Donatello looked in the washed-out light of the med bay, and concentrates on evening out his breathing. "Where's Mikey?"

"He followed Splinter in to see him. Now answer the question."

"I did. And now that I don't got any more obligations to anybody, I'm headed out."

Leonardo doesn't make a sound, but draws himself up to his full height and steps with purpose into Raphael's space, water droplets from his still-wet black hair spraying on to Raphael's shoulders, eyes dangerous. "Not until you tell me why you apparently kicked him out of the Drift. I don't even have to tell you what a dick move that was-"

"Oh, so now we're talking about dick moves?" spits Raphael, the tenuous self-control he's been trying to exercise starting to snap. "How about pulling rank on the guy that knows more about the Kaiju than we do in the middle of a fight, oh Perfect One-"

"You know full well that there was something off about the ones out there today," counters Leonardo, eyes narrowing, the dark, leathery stripe crinkling over his cheekbones. "Exercising caution is going to keep us alive when the world needs us most-"

"The world don't _need us_ , Leo," Raphael screams then, hunching his shoulders and answering Leonardo's stance with one of his own, using his bulk to his advantage. It's a painful thing to admit, but he can't stop himself from spitting, "This life ain't somethin' we chose. Anybody can run goddamn secret missions, but we're doin' it cause we don't exist. We're doin' the Defense Corps' dirty work for free cause there ain't no other line of work for _freaks_ like us."

"Raph, _stop-_ "

"And y'know, Leo, maybe you were right, maybe we shouldn't ah tried somethin' new with those Kaiju today. And maybe you're even right about me bein' a dick today. But you try and pull one more _goddamn_ line about how our fucking mutation is what makes us responsible for fightin', you're outta line and I'm done."

Before Leonardo's stricken expression can even register in his mind, Raphael turns and storms down the hallway. Two levels down, he nearly crashes headfirst into his room, and slams his back to the door and screams through his teeth before he lashes out and destroys something. The tension and exhaustion from the fight has finally started to settle in, and unwilling to see if he can break yet another punching bag before dinnertime, Raphael screws his eyes shut and counts backwards from a hundred until his heart rate finally stabilizes and he no longer wants to smack anyone's face. The bubbling, red-hot heat drains though him and seeps away until he's just a tired, antsy noodle, grinding his teeth to dust and trembling in his thin A-shirt.

He needs to get out of his room before anyone comes to find him.

Raphael takes his favorite disguise, a beat-up old East bay custodian's uniform he swiped from the communal laundry, and drapes the dingy brown shirt over his shoulders, covering up the smattering of leathery patches and hard keratin scutes that mar his upper back and elbows. With a pair of dirty fingerless gloves pulled over the patches on his wrists and the matching cap pulled low over his face, he sneaks from shadow to shadow out of the secret North wing and through the narrow corridors that lead towards the recreational areas at the lower base of the Shatterdome.

If he's lucky, he might catch a movie. If not, there are always some ugly-faced thugs to pick a fight with outside. Anything to stop thinking about how the Hamato brothers are freaks, and how they didn't ask to be the way they are, and how the world has robbed Raphael of any hope of ever feeling like he's human after all.

-

As soon as Donatello comes out of decontamination, Michelangelo rounds on him with a gleam in his Kaiju Blue eyes and gleefully holds up his phone. "Wanna call for a pizza?"

"Everything but anchovies," laughs Donatello, gratefully, wringing the water out of his hair. With a hum of approval, Michelangelo dials for the closest pizza joint (it's a wonder pizza joints are still in existence after the second Breach, but if New York's going to support one thing even in the worst of times, it's pizza) and orders a large pie, and with the promise of a warm snack in the future, the brothers creep along the darkest, most secluded hallways towards their own rooms. It's better to stay as far away from their crew as possible. One wrong move and there could be an incident. The New York Shatterdome's secret North Wing runs smoothest when no one acknowledges each other, like if they pretend hard enough it'll all be all right, or at the very least, legal.

Michelangelo doesn't beat around the bush. "It wasn't some malfunction or whatever. Raph kicked you out. Of the Drift."

"Yeah."

"Asshole."

"Kind of. But he's our asshole."

"Why're you tryna defend him?" Michelangelo frowns, following Donatello into his lab and nearly tipping over a tangle of wires on the floor. Donatello spends more time in this small workshop more than he does his own bedroom, surrounded by his extensive arrays of salvaged technology and reclaimed junk. His first PONS unit sits in an acrylic box in the back corner, Donatello's pride and joy- of course, over the years, he's developed greater things than his child self could have dreamed. None of it, strictly speaking, officially his own design, but utilized all over the Shatterdome anyway.

"He said sorry."

"So?"

"He meant it," Donatello says simply, looking down at his hands while Michelangelo makes himself at home on the extra cot pushed into the side of the cramped lab. For lack of anything else to do, the adrenaline from the fight having left him long ago, he sits on the other side of the cot and mindlessly fishes out an old Silver Sentry comic from the shelf beside it, passing it to Michelangelo and receiving a mumble of thanks in return.

"Dude, just 'cause he's sorry doesn't mean he's not gonna flip out on you again."

"Aw, Mikey, are you worrying about me?" teases Don softly, nudging him with a knee. "You don't have to. We're seventeen. We wear big boy shorts now. Raph picks on you all the time and I don't lose too much sleep over it."

"Shut up. You know it only gets this crazy when Raph and Leo start… y'know. Fighting again."

"I… I saw Leo and Raph fighting yesterday, actually. In the Drift," says Donatello wearily, rubbing at his eyes. "I know we said we wouldn't chase any rabbits, especially before real fights, but-"

"Did it look… bad?"

Donatello risks a peek at Michelangelo's face and immediately regrets it. His brother has never been one for hiding his emotions, and the boy he sees before him, head resting on his knees beside him on the tiny cot and almost dead-eyed with old wounds and fresh pains, looks less like his Michelangelo than he'd strictly prefer. He forces himself to casually shrug. "Well, not bad. Just a spat. It's my fault for prying."

Uncharacteristically serious, Michelangelo says, "Don, I know if Leo were here he'd tell you to ninja-kick the damn rabbits and forget all about it, but let me just tell you now so we're on the same page here, that's stupid as hell and we all know it."

"Mikey-"

"I mean it, bro," Michelangelo sighs, and then flops to his side with a reassuringly normal Michelangelo-type pout. "We can't fight anymore. If we end up murdering each other or dying out there in a fight, Splinter'll kill us, and we all know it. So you didn't do anything wrong. If anything, Leo and Raph are both being meatheads and we're the ones that have to just sit here and live with it, y'know?"

Donatello smiles, despite himself. "So it's okay if I'm still a little mad at them both?"

"Totally. So'm I."

The brothers rest on the cot in companionable silence, sharing the Silver Sentry comic between them for lack of anything else to say, until Michelangelo's phone beeps to signal the oncoming pizza delivery and he gets up, yawning.

Donatello moves to follow him, but Michelangelo just throws the comic on him and sticks his tongue out. "My turn to get it. You can take the next one when your brain isn't scrambled."

"Fine. Got enough money?"

"I've got a ten, it's cool."

"The tab's thirteen."

Michelangelo shrugs, the freckles dusting over the skin on his shoulders not covered in bluish-green leather, and smiles wickedly as he tugs on a loose jacket to cover up. "So? The new guy they've got doing deliveries is always a couple minutes late. And wise man say, _'Forgiveness is divine, but never pay full price for late pizza.'_ "

-

It's dark out, late, but New York never sleeps, and the Shatterdome is always humming with energy. Raphael slips across a narrow walkway through the East bay hangar, still trying to cool off, antsy and fidgety and fed up with staying silent at the back of the room while the rest of the PADC watch a shitty robot movie or fight over the games in the arcade. (None of them know the identity of the elusive 'MH' that tops every scoreboard, but Raphael has long since begrudgingly accepted that no one can beat Michelangelo Hamato's high scores, and no one will.)

It's one thing trying to calm down in any normal, sane situation. It's another to try and calm down while stuck in an enormous building after a fight with a two giant alien monsters in a giant robot, all while being virtually unseen by the world.

Still on edge, Raphael sneaks from shadow to shadow, padding around a couple of the technicians on the night shift, to head towards the Kwoon. Watching the new guys spar pathetically always cheers him up. He leaps from the edge of the walkway to climb through a series of metal beams and rafters to crawl along a hidden path across a ceiling into the wing designated of Jaeger Academy trainees, and is about to drop down when he hears-

"You think you can play teacher's pet and get ahead without us knowing, Ginger?"

Something in the voice doesn't sound like regular hazing. Suddenly wishing he'd had the foresight to bring a couple of his own weapons out, Raphael silently crawls with the pads of his fingers on the metal support structure of the ceiling towards the voice, and watches from a high ventilation window as a scrawny kid of maybe sixteen backs away from a group of much taller trainees. It's that new dweeb. What's-his-face, O'Neil's handler's kid. Pendleton? Paddington? Pennington.

Whatever his name is, the kid's outnumbered six to one, and if that didn't rankle Raphael's chains, the guys backing the unarmed redhead into a corner are all brandishing weapons taken off of the Kwoon walls. It just ain't fair.

The biggest guy looms over the kid, who's obviously trying to look tough but makes a noise like a spooked puppy, and eventually corners him at the wall furthest from Raphael's shadowy vantage point and growls, "Just look at ya. Can't weigh ninety pounds soaking wet, probably don't even know how to lift a deadweight."

"I know how to-"

"Shut up and listen, bitch. You failed all the tests a month ago, but how is it that your name's on the roster for Drift Compatibility sparring next week, huh? Not even Keno climbed up the ranks that fast."

The redheaded kid flushes and stammers, "I- I trained really hard and-"

The pig faced punk to the left raises his staff to the kid's skinny neck and hisses, almost too low for Raphael to make out if it weren't for the echoes, "Did Daddy pay off the PACD for ya? Or did ya have ta suck a few co-"

"Shut up!" yells the kid, and then he does something interesting. After looking around to see if anyone's listening in (and completely missing Raphael, who crouches stock-still in the rafters) he mutters between his teeth, "You guys can get on the roster too if you talk to Master Tatsu or Master Hun about… about joining the Foot Clan-"

"The what?"

_The what?_

Before the kid can answer further, however, the ventilation window from the Western wall suddenly slams open and someone jumps down to the floor, landing with a thud that reverberates though the Kwoon and nearly shocking Raphael out of his reverie. He was so focused on the kid's words that he completely missed the guy sneaking in.

The bullies swivel around as the intruder straightens up, and Raphael notices with a mix of horror, fascination and absolute glee that he's wearing an actual honest-to-goodness hockey mask over his face. An array of steel pipes, baseball bats and even a golf club is strapped to his back, and in the stunned silence the new guy raises one gloved hand and points to the biggest bully.

"You sons of bitches picked the wrong night to fuck around."

It's him.

The thugs go into fighting stances. "Shit, it's you. The whack job in the hockey mask. You're fucking real."

" _Damn straight_ I'm real."

It's the guy that's been crawling the Shatterdome at night for the past month, picking fights and sending random guys to the med bay. Raphael half didn't believe the rumors, and half relished the idea of getting to fight the guy himself. And how he's here in the flesh, and Raphael gets to watch.

Hell yeah. This is gonna be so good.

Two of the dumbest thugs charge straight at Hockey Mask, who whips a bent pipe from the bundle strapped to his back and slams straight into them. He's insanely strong, and he takes the bullies' blows with the simple but effective blocks before retaliating with heavy swings from his pipe and actual punches. When the other guys round into him from the sides, he grabs one by the arm, bends it to his back and uses him as a human meat shield while he one-handedly plows through them.

When two of them grab his arms and a third comes in from the front for a straight-up punch, he rears back and actually headbutts the guy's hand with the hockey mask, and from what Raphael can tell from the shriek that follows, the blow probably breaks a few fingers.

On his way around the rim of steel beams that support the ceiling of the Kwoon, coming in closer to the fight and the kid still cowering with his back to the wall, Raphael grimaces. Something in the way Hockey Mask fights reminds Raphael uncomfortably of himself.

"You think you can fight? Is that the best you got? Now just sit tight, kids, 'cause I've got a few questions for you later..."

Soon all the bullies are on the floor, and Raphael sits back on the rafter, watching closely for the moment the guy shifts back into civilian mode to get the skinny redheaded kid out of there.

The moment never arrives.

The guy just keeps pounding away at the bullies, never letting them get five feet away before slamming them back to the floor, and roaring with something that's half rage and half delight when the biggest guy, a purple welt beginning to swell on his forehead, screams, "C'mon, man, don't! Help! Somebody!"

"Ain't no help around here, bud," snarls Hockey Mask, and it's right then that Raphael comes back to himself and nearly slaps himself. What's he doing just sitting around and watching like an idiot when he's an actual trained ninja?

"Think again, Jason Voorhees," he announces, feeling a little stupid for the lame line as he hands firmly right on top of Hockey Mask, tackling him right to the floor. Thankful for the low light as he adjusts the brim of his beat-up old custodian's cap further down his face, Raphael braces himself for the recoil and struggles to the side when Hockey Masks's arm flies out from under him and swings the pipe right into his back. He manages to roll away just in time for it to smack onto the Kwoon floor and bounce away instead, and skitters closer to the wall while Hockey Mask gets back up. Turning to look at the skinny ginger, he scans his face and memorizes it for later before jerking his head towards the door and barking, "Beat it!"

Thankfully, he does, and the punks getting their asses beat follow him with a few whimpers.

Hockey Mask actually yells, "Hey! Get back here, you shitnuggets!" and tries to give chase, but Raphael lowers his stance and tackles him again, coming up from behind to pin his arms down. A struggle ensues, but while Hockey Mask is taller and slightly broader, Raphael's got the advantage and the proper training, and he keeps his hold on the guy to give the bloody punks time to escape into the dimly lit hallways outside.

"Stop- calm the fuck down! You're a fucking maniac!"

"Stay outta my business, freak."

Raphael's blood starts to boil and something in him buzzes low and hot as the guy finally twists out of his grasp and reaches behind his back to slide the golf club out.

"What did you call me?"

"You let those assholes get away. Punks like that don't deserve to be Jaeger pilots, let alone in training to be Rangers."

Raphael growls, "Yeah? Who died and made you the referee?"

"Everyone the Kaiju killed. Life ain't got justice in it no more, so I'm bringin' my own justice," answers the guy in the mask with a snarl, and Raphael can't even digest those words before the guy's charging straight at his face.

Ducking low so the initial swing flies over his head, Raphael lunges at Hockey Mask and lands a solid punch straight into his gut. When he recoils with a curse, Raphael dodges the defensive swing and swivels to his side to knock him off his feet, taking the club from his hands and throwing it away with a clatter. Hockey Mask recovers quicker than he anticipated, and slams him bodily to the ground, but Raphael uses the momentum to grab him from the shoulders and take him down with him, legs coming up to kick into his abdomen and flip him over. Raphael takes a breath and rolls to the side just in time to dodge Hockey Mask's kick, and when he's close enough to the guy's face, elbows him hard across the temple, sending the mask flying off of his face as they both struggle to stand up.

Raphael's just about to reel back for another punch when he catches a glance at his face, and stops dead.

The guy's young- he can't be over twenty-one or twenty-two, no more than a couple of years older than Raphael at best, and long, shaggy hair frames his face in a way that makes Raphael remember all those times he has teased Donatello about cutting his own.

He knows that face.

He was on the elevator with this guy just this morning, while O'Neil was coming down from the landing pad with her camera equipment.

The guy shakes his head, long hair casting his face in shadow, and raises the bent pipe straight at Raphael's face with a sudden look of bewilderment. "You serious? The hell is that, some kinda new type of eczema rash?"

Raphael doesn't get it until he feels a drop of sweat traveling down his forehead from his hairline and suddenly realizes that sometime during the struggle, his hat has fallen off his head, and the leathery stripes running across his cheeks from ear to ear are in full view.

The panic at being seen is drowned under the adrenaline. "We ain't fighting, kid."

"Oh, aren't we?"

"The fuck d'you think you're accomplishing, just bargin' in and bein' some kinda vigilante?" hisses Raphael, not willing to break eye contact just to look for his stupid hat.

"Teachin' these punks that even if they've somehow got into the Jaeger Academy, they don't own the Shatterdome and they don't own New York," grins Hockey-Mask-sans-mask. "Teachin' em a lesson."

"Maybe you ain't the most qualified to keep whatever's your idea of peace around here," Raphael growls, but the guy just shrugs and flashes his teeth.

"Yeah? Well, maybe you're the one that needs to be taught a lesson. Class's Pain 101, freak, and this is your instructor, Mr. Casey Jones."

Hockey-Mask-who-is-apparently-named-Casey-Jones starts to go into a fighting stance again, but Raphael raises his hands and hisses, "What the fuck d'you have against Jaeger pilots?" and Jones stops in his tracks.

"What?"

Raphael scrabbles for an in. "I mean, unless you're jealous-"

"Jealous?" Jones spits, laughing, lowering his fists slightly. "C'mon, have you seen these new guys? I ain't jealous of the worst potential Rangers the world's ever seen. Naw. But I do got something' against corrupt assholes who're letting the PACD do whatever they like for money. Did you hear what they were talkin' about? The little guy's been payin' to get ahead in the Academy, and that's proof enough for me that we're all bein' lied to."

"Yeah, and what's it to you?" Raphael slowly asks, straightening up and never putting his hands down, never letting the gesture of peace slip through the cracks in this sudden moment of clarity between him and the only guy he's ever met who's just as angry as he is.

Casey Jones sneers, but it looks a little empty. It looks haunted. Desperate. "You'd want to beat on the guys enabling this crap if you knew they were working' for the organization that killed your old man."

Wait.

Something clicks inside Raphael.

"You mean… the Foot Clan."

A shadow suddenly flits across Jones's eyes and his arm suddenly goes to his back once more, slowly drawing out a baseball bat.

"Yeah. Yeah, I mean the Foot Clan. I never knew much about 'em, only found out knew that they were the ones hirin' a bunch of guys working here in the New York Shatterdome, and that they might be the ones suddenly faking all those records and stats about the Kaiju fights. Paying' off all those guys that know that there's a couple of secret Jaegers here to pretend they don't exist. The ones who don't want people to know that the new Kaiju attackin' New York ain't normal, and killin' civilians that don't cooperate. Like people from my neighborhood. Like my old man. I came here to learn who the fuck the Foot Clan actually is so I can kick their asses, and pal, looks like you know more than I do."

Raphael closes his eyes and breathes in.

He's probably going to regret this. Probably.

But when this is his only chance at finding the answers to questions he's had about himself his entire life, what risk is too great?

Raphael moves slowly, making sure Jones isn't going to attack him when his guard is down, and slowly reaches up to drag the collar of his large canvas jacket and A-shirt off of his shoulder. He hears Jones mutter a quiet, "What the _fuck,_ " at the raised dark green scutes and patches of mottled leather covering his shoulder and running down his chest, amphibian-like splotches of skin that shine with iridescent Kaiju Blue when the light hits them just right.

"My name is Raphael Hamato. I pilot one of the secret Jaegers, me and my three brothers. All we know about our past is that we were mutated as kids by a strain of Kaiju Blue developed by the Foot Clan, and that the Foot Clan ain't fundin' our Jaegers. The PACD is. I think," says Raphael slowly, hoping against all odds that Casey Jones can be trusted, "I think that the Foot's infiltratin' the New York Shatterdome to try and find us. They've been here for a while and no one can tell who to be trusted. Can't tell who's PACD and who's Foot anymore."

For a moment, Jones is silent, but when he speaks again his words are heavy, and burning with some emotion Raphael can't name.

"So why youse telling' me all of this?"

"Cause you probably ain't Foot Clan. Cause the Kaiju I'm fightin' are gettin' weirder and weirder, and I'm tired of not knowin' who I am and why I gotta be doin' what I do. And I get it. I get wantin' to kill the Foot Clan so hard their ancestors fuckin' fly outta their graves. I don't know much about 'em either, but I wanna kill 'em all too. And you're the only guy I see that's messed-up enough to want the same thing, and who's probably willing' to do some crazy shit to get answers."

Casey Jones finally lowers the baseball bat.

"So now what?"

"So now you tell me what you know, then I tell you what you know, we make ourselves a plan and we all go home happy. Deal?"

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prologue has been edited to include a sketch of April as she appears in this fic, and the next chapter will include a sketch of the Hamato brothers as well.
> 
> The mystery continues! What's the PADC up to? Why are the Jaegers such a big secret? What's the deal with the weird Kaiju? What's the Foot Clan got to do with any of this? And what, exactly, are the Hamato brothers? Tune in next time for some answers, and even more questions!


	5. Like a Bootleg Ocean's Eleven

-

"So, effectively, your research is pioneering the advancement of robotics technology for a wider range of possible universal applications in the future?"

"That is absolutely correct, Miss O'Neil."

"Wow, Doctor Stockman," April gushes, making sure to lean further into the shot and given the camera her best natural smile. "The K-Science division here at the New York Shatterdome is _so_ incredibly amazing! Your work is _such_ an inspiration!"

"Why, so it is," replies Stockman, leaning back into his chair smugly, either completely unaware of how disgustingly smarmy he's seeming, or much too egotistical to care. April strongly suspects it's the former, but she wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter instead.

"I think our global audience will agree. Do you have any last words for the world before we sign off for the day?"

"I do indeed." Turning to fully face the camera, the scientist adjusts the collar of his pristine white lab coat and flashes a classic pearly white, toothy smile to the millions of viewers tuned into the world's most extensively watched hacker-network news program. "The second Breach was a tragedy this fine planet should never have been forced to endure, especially since we were promised by those who claimed to have stopped the Precursors for good that we would be safe again. It is my sincerest hope that the world may someday come to peace once more, but until that day, rest assured, I, Doctor Baxter Stockman, will work tirelessly to bring you the best engineering, design and innovation for a brighter tomorrow."

Gross.

"Thank you, Doctor," April nearly swoons as she shakes his hand, turning back to where Charles Pennington is giving her an unamused look from behind the camera crew. "From all of our hearts, we thank you for your invaluable work. Live from the New York Shatterdome, this has been April O'Neil for The People's Private Eye News."

"Aaaand, cut," grits Pennington, and immediately April gets up from her hard plastic seat and gives Dr. Stockman another perfunctory mushy smile. Even if Pennington and most of the crew can tell she's been faking her enthusiasm for the man's self-obsessed nattering since the beginning of the interview, the man himself doesn't seem to have realized that she's been taking the piss the entire time.

This is good. April's a woman on a mission, and if her target is genuinely the world's densest narcissist, all the better for her needs. "Doctor, I can't even believe we managed to land such an important interview with you," she croons, actually putting her hand over her heart and bending at the knee a little bit. Would it be too much if she batted her eyelashes? "It was over way too soon. I mean, THE Baxter Stockman!"

"My dear Miss O'Neil, the pleasure was all mine," drips Stockman, and it takes every iota of April's professionalism and acting skill to suppress a shiver at the slime that oozes from his words. "Anything to help the world better understand the vital work being achieved here in my top-of-the-line, world-class laboratory."

 _'It ain't your laboratory, buster. It's the PADC's,'_ April suddenly has the urge to quip, and she bites her tongue to hold back the snark that could ruin her carefully laid-out plans. Instead, she fluffs at the short strands of red hair that frame her ears and titters, "This material is _so_ much more fascinating than any of the other information I've been getting from all of the other departments. It's _so_ frustrating as a reporter with dignity to have to offer equal coverage to everyone, when I'm _sure_ everyone tuning in would like to delve deeper into what's going on here at K-Science instead! Oh, what do I do? The audience is _sure_ to want more than what we've recorded..."

Stockman peers at the fancy gold watch at his wrist and purses his mouth before leaning back and grandly gesticulating, "Then perhaps I may have a few spare moments to show you around my division's private labs before I must return to my vital research."

April risks doing a classic fifties silent-film double take for the sheer fun of it, hand on her cheek and eyes widening. She flutters her eyelashes (yes!) and exclaims, "Oh, _would you_ , Doctor? Thank you _so_ much!"

"Anything for the one and only April O'Neil," says Stockman with his nose in the air, having completely missed the joke at his expense, and gets up to gesture towards one of the doors at the back of the large lab. April springs up and follows him past the makeshift set with glee, but over the clattering and hubbub of the camera crew packing up their equipment, Pennington lightly grabs April's shoulder and mutters into her ear, "Hamming it up, Superspy O'Neil? What're you up to this time?"

"Aw, Charles, I'm only having a little fun with the guy," says April, beaming innocently. "See you later."

She picks up her yellow coat from where it is draped over a spare desk and surreptitiously slips her hand into the pocket. Pretending to rummage through for her cell phone, April deftly switches her tiny recording device on and follows after Stockman's heels into the secluded inner sanctum of the lab. She's rewarded for her little bout of playacting with rows after rows of hard drives as large as bookshelves, gently humming generators, a fantastic array of screens and displays and even slices of Kaiju parts floating in formaldehyde and vials of Kaiju Blue in ordered degrees of decomposition. It's altogether much more specific technology than the Geiszler Milking Machines and rows upon rows of totally average preservation receptacles in the main lab. In one corner, April immediately notices, there is a small and unassuming unmarked metal file cabinet with what looks to be a simple pin tumbler lock keeping it shut, sitting under what looks to be a copy of the famous Gottlieb Microarray Sequencing Rig. It's completely out of place in its sheer… plainness.

When Stockman clears his throat and gestures for April to pay attention, starting on yet another self-obsessed rant, April feigns an eager nod until he turns back around.

Most of the hard drives look to be the average number-crunching Jaeger AI simulation dupes and run-of-the-mill storage databases, but behind a thick partition, April sees a custom-built unit tucked under what looks to be a well-worn user interface and several self-assembled wire ports running into a plug in the back wall.

Looking up under the pretext of gaping in awe at all the shiny toys, April scouts around for something specific and smiles with genuine delight when she finds it, a hinged maintenance shaft porthole on the ceiling, bolted shut with two deadbolt locks and positioned conveniently right over a large cooling unit shaft that looks strong enough to support the weight of, say, a female person of average body type.

Hypothetically, of course.

Bingo.

-

104\. Breathe in.

Clear the mind. Think only of the candle flame.

Breathe out. 105.

Breathe in.

Inner peace. The body is a temple.

Breathe out. 106.

Breathe in.

A bitten-off whisper, distant shushing, tiptoes on metal floors.

Breathe- wait, what?

No, concentrate. 107. Breathe in.

Be at one with the universe. Know thy inner self.

Breathe out. 108.

Breathe in.

Wait, it's way past curfew. Why is everyone making so much noise? Stop-

No, concentrate! Breathe out. 1.

Breathe in.

Feel the rhythm of the earth, the power in the flame.

Breathe out. 2-

"Shut up, Mikey! Leo'll hear you!"

Ugh.

Leonardo cracks his eyes open just to roll them, and then snuffs out the candle flame with two pinched fingers. For Pete's sake, he's meditating, not in a coma.

Good thing he's always been the best at the actual 'silent as the night' part of ninja training. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to pull of his patented Phantom Confrontation move.

The communal 'living room', really more of a common area refurbished from what was supposed to be a main office, is dark and empty for the moment, but Leonardo knows from experience that he needs to get a head start if he wants to pull this off. Swiftly and silently, he treads heel-toe across the carpeted areas and ducks behind coffee tables and dilapidated sofas with ease, twisting around the lamp he knows is there though he can't see it in the darkness, and exiting out of the door with a finger over the latch and latch plate to smother any noises. He manages to crawl away from the door and into the dark hallway right on time as he pricks his ears to the sounds of three pairs of feet padding anxiously across the living room floor.

Leonardo chooses the appropriate waiting area a few steps away from the corner turn and shuffles between a few likely poses. Does he feel like the classic crossed arms or the casual leaning-on-the-wall tonight? Hands-on-hips might be a little comical and he's going for a more serious, accusatory tone here. When the footsteps grow closer he decides to combine the two approaches into a remixed crossed-arms-while-leaning-on-the-wall combination, which he knows will probably be brutally effective in communicating his disappointment, and waits.

The expressions on his brothers' faces is completely worth the extra effort that always goes into his showy confrontations.

Stopping dead in their tracks, Raphael growls, Donatello murmurs, "How the hell does he do that…" under his breath and Michelangelo squeaks, "Leo!"

"And just where are you three going? It's 2:30 in the morning and we have training tomorrow. Don, you ought to be resting-"

"I'm fine, Leo," grouses Donatello, but Michelangelo cuts him off.

"We woulda told you we were gonna sneak out if we thought you wouldn't get mad or tell Splinter or somethin'."

A headache definitely coming on, Leo comes out of Confrontation mode (new pose field tested, proven deadly, Grade A, will use in the future) and goes straight into Nag mode. "Maybe if you explained what's going on I wouldn't get mad." He glares at the three brothers in turn, and though Raph looks to be biting back the most actual information, Donatello probably deserves a mental break and Michelangelo is shifting from leg to leg like he needs to piss. It's always been the easiest to break Michelangelo anyway, so Leo faces him fully and jabs, "I thought we agreed that the four of us would do everything together."

The guilt trip works spectacularly and before Raphael and Donatello can smother him under their arms, Michelangelo crumples and whines, "But you hate it when we steal shit and you're gonna snitch on us to Splinter and we'll be grounded 'till we're thirty." He slaps his hands over his mouth in sudden realization immediately after the words escape him, electric blue eyes widening, the other two partners-in-crime sighing in exasperation and probably regretting telling him the plans.

Leo's jaw tightens. "Stealing?"

"Dammit, Mikey," Raph mutters under his breath.

"It's not money or anybody's personal property, Leo-" Donatello starts, and then falters. "I- It isn't what you think. I think we all ought to go and do this, actually."

"I would have expected better from you, at least," begins Leonardo, fighting back the beginnings of confused agitation, until Raphael just growls and digs his heel into the floor, big shoulders coming up to hunch around himself.

"Don's right. We shoulda called you out to come with us."

Eh?

A sudden wave of some uncomfortable feeling courses through Leonardo, a cocktail of confusion, fury, and perhaps a twinge of relief, and he shakes away all of the half-bitten things he has to say to Raphael and just hisses, "You're damn right you should have. Now can one of you please tell me what exactly you're trying to do here?"

There's an awkward silence while the three failed escapees look like they're struggling with themselves, and then Michelangelo throws his hands up in the air. All in one breath, he blurts out, "It's a big Oceans Eleven heist on K-Science's archives because Raph got in a fight with that crazy vigilante dude that's been hanging around here and apparently he thinks that one of the Foot Clan guys that's been infiltrating the Dome works there and they might have info about us that might go to some shady creeps or maybe even info that we don't even know about ourselves and I think we deserve to know that stuff so yeah." It's an impressive feat of lung capacity.

Leo stares for half a second before frowning. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. The Foot Clan? Are you sure?"

Raphael crosses his arms against his chest. Classic defensive stance. "Trust me, Leo, the vigilante guy looked like a textbook maniac but he looked like he wanted to cry when he started talkin' about how his dad got killed by the Foot. He's been tailing the whole gang from everywhere outside the Dome until they got in, and he knows his stuff."

"Does he know why the Foot want us?" Leo hisses, panic rising. He ought to tell Splinter. Really, he should. This is exactly the sort of thing Sensei ought to know about. And yet-

Raphael just grimaces and takes a small keyring out of his pocket and tosses it to Leonardo. "I dunno. Ask him yourself. The guy's name is Casey Jones, he's one of the custodians on the ground floor. The deal was that he gives me those, helps make it easy on us to sneak into K-Science to find out whatever we need to know about what's-his-face, Dr. Stockman, and in exchange we call him up to tell him if we ever find out who's responsible for the attacks outside. Or if we're ever in a fight. Guy likes fights. I think maybe I've finally found a guy who's just as angry at everything as I am."

The keys gleam dully in the dim light of the hallway outside the Hamato brothers' home, and Leonardo lets out a breath and thinks about how he his brothers live in the dark, in a secret, cramped corner of the Shatterdome that doesn't exist on any official floor plans, how they risk their lives to save innocent lives from a threat the PACD and his own father won't tell him anything about, and how the four have never had a chance to decide anything for themselves in their entire lives.

Leonardo closes his hand around the keys and looks into his brothers' eyes. "Okay. Let's go."

The four straighten up, the real gravity of the situation slowly dawning on them, until Leonardo suddenly thinks of something and points back inside their living quarters.

"But first, ninja gear and weapons. We're not risking anything. If K-Science really has been infiltrated by the Foot, there's bound to be security cameras everywhere in there."

-

The first thing Donatello says after he's cracked open the security panel is, "Hey, guys? The, uh…The cameras have all been disabled already."

"Oh, really? Cool," says Michelangelo, making a move to turn the corner, but Leonardo grabs him by the scruff of his black hoodie, mood darkening by the second.

"Hold it." Something isn't right here. The skin on the back of his neck prickling, Leonardo resists the urge to unsheathe one of the two swords strapped to his back and stands stock-still in the dark hallway beside his brothers. "Does it look like they're normally turned on?"

"From what I can tell, yeah," says Donatello, typing away furiously at the tiny palmtop he's hooked into the panel's wiring. Goggles secured over his eyes, the team techie leans in closer to the inner workings of the system until he mutters a small, "Aha!" to himself and gestures for Leonardo to look. It's an incomprehensible mass of motherboards and circuits to him, but it must mean something if it's making Donatello this antsy.

"What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

Donatello doesn't spare a moment and immediately starts unplugging his palmtop, closing the panel and screwing it back in as the brothers look on, on edge. "Somebody tampered with the system just twenty minutes ago. The cameras have been forced into a feedback loop for the rest of the night and the lights are all on standby mode."

A cold chill running down his spine, Leonardo can feel Raphael and Michelangelo tensing up beside him. "Does that mean we've been found out?"

"I don't think so," murmurs Donatello, but he motions towards the half-light outside of K-Science's main labs and points out, "-but that doesn't mean that we shouldn't still be careful. It was kind of a slapdash job. Simple but effective. There might be a maintenance guy in there stealing supplies. Or worse- the Jones guy set us up and we're going to step right into the Foot Clan's trap."

Leonardo peeks out from behind the corner. "Let's hope it's neither. Let's rock and roll, boys."

The Hamato brothers skirt the shadows and breach K-Science in complete silence, a hand muffling the jingle of keys and the click of the latch. The four close the door behind them and immediately disperse into the four corners of the room, as if it were a practice session in the dojo, and sweep for danger. They know the general layout of the room- it pays to be completely in the know about the floor plans of a building- but it's the first time any of them have dared step foot in the K-Science labs, having been banned from entering the official South Wing facilities by Master Splinter since they began Jaeger training in earnest. It's something they all just accepted as youth (Donatello with some measure of put-out reluctance) but somehow, using Splinter's lessons to commit such a boldfaced act of rebellion feels almost doubly criminal. As criminal as they could possibly be in a completely empty room filled with standard scientific equipment, at any rate. After a moment, safe in the knowledge that they are alone, the brothers converge in the middle, jittery and almost disappointed in the lab's sheer boringness.

Leonardo motions for everyone to pull down their masks- a last-minute addition, just in case highly illegal late-night excursions become a regular thing and they'll need to start worrying about more than just cameras. It's a wonder they all somehow managed to find bandanas in their favorite colors. "See anything interesting?"

"Besides stupid big computers and gross Kaiju intestines? Zippo," says Michelangelo, making a face. "And a bunch of papers and stuff, but who cares about that."

"We might," sighs Donatello. "Is this gonna be a long night of sifting through a million file cabinets? If it is, I want out. Just let me take a look at some of this sweet tech while we're still completely disobeying Splinter and at least one of us might go home happy."

Something doesn't seem right. It almost felt to Leonardo that he might find something off in this room- something April O'Neil's morning broadcast didn't cover. But nothing has changed…

Except that the door leading to Dr. Stockman's personal laboratory near the back of the main lab is slightly ajar. A clue, a confrontation, anything- it all seems more likely to be found in there. Leo motions towards the door and the brothers nod to each other, going back into stealth mode and following Leonardo into the secluded inner lab.

Almost immediately, his weirdness sensors go into full alert mode. As Raphael mutters, "What the…" at his side, Leonardo crouches down and all but pushes his brothers deeper into the shadows vignetting the small room at the sight of the open maintenance grate hanging off its hinges on the ceiling, a file cabinet with a few papers sticking out, revealing its recent ransacking, and, strangest of all, a device strikingly similar to Donatello's own custom palmtop plugged haphazardly into what looks like Dr. Stockman's personal hard drive.

All signs lead to another presence in the room- but it is empty.

In the gentle hum of generators and eerie glow of the Kaiju parts on display in tanks of formaldehyde, the four brothers slowly creep around, hearts in their throats. Leonardo wills his pulse to slow down, the Drift that never stops between them all swimming through his veins and his mind and his heart, a low throbbing need and want and desperation and excitement that courses through them like electricity. Somewhere in here might be answers- answers to seventeen years of wondering.

Raphael climbs a tall cooling shaft in one swift move and examines the open maintenance porthole while Donatello sneaks around the various computers towards the device plugged into Stockman's main interface, babbling to himself almost nonstop under his breath. While Michelangelo slowly approaches the tanks of Kaiju parts, a sheen of sickly light washing over his curls, Leonardo swallows thickly and casts one long look over his family before forcing the badly closed file cabinet open.

The first thing that Leonardo really notices is that it's all paper. Honest-to-goodness paper files, which he hasn't really known anyone to do anymore. Not one electronic storage device to be found. Everything seems to be in order by year, slim manila folders in neatly organized bundles from 2014- a year after the First Breach, and the formation of the PPDC- to present day, the 2027 folder looking almost suspiciously thin. Papers from the front to the back have been taken out and quickly stuffed back in very recently, judging form the crumpling caused by the cabinet suddenly closing. Thirteen years of filing. But filing what? Stockman was only employed in 2025, after the Second Breach opened months after Gipsy Danger's famous last battle. Leonardo quickly rifles through the tops of the folders and sees receipts for equipment purchases, budgeting, commissions, and spending logs, all with the PPDC and later PADC logo on the top. Confused, Leonardo takes out a folder at random, the second quarter for 2016, and is startled to suddenly notice that there are two copies of every file, with minor additions or exclusions in a different type on every second page.

Money. Stockman's got ahold of off-the-grid hard copies of the UN's monetary spendings since the PPDC was first established. He has official records, which he shouldn't have access to, and, horrifyingly, the actual records- which he really, really, really shouldn't have access to.

This means that he knows about the budget for buying out witnesses, and keeping the North Wing employees quiet, and everything that has gone to the creation and maintenance of Shadow Guardian and Shadow Sentinel.

He knows the Hamato brothers exist. He knows more about them than they do themselves.

And… Suddenly, it's very clear what Leonardo needs to do for his family.

Oh, god, Splinter would _kill_ him if he ever found out.

Hands shaking, Leonardo says in a low voice, "Guys?"

There is a pause, and when Raphael answers, "Yeah?" Leonardo screws his eyes shut, willing himself to somehow remain calm, and, fighting with all of his might to keep a steady voice, he says, "Trash the place up and take anything that looks real expensive."

To his left, still hovering over the device plugged into Stockman's computer, Donatello makes a high keening noise at the back of his throat and Michelangelo chokes out a disbelieving laugh. "Wait, what?"

Crap, what would Sensei say if he saw this?

"You heard me," Leonardo grits, sliding every file from 2025 to 2027 out of the cabinet and holding the bundle up. "This is the real record of where the UN's money has been going. We're stealing these and making it look like a common robbery."

There is a longer, more pregnant pause.

It's broken by Raphael cracking his knuckles and smiling wickedly from his place up on top of the cooling shaft. "That's the best thing you've said all day, Fearless."

Michelangelo lights up like a Christmas tree. "No way. Oh my god, dude. Can we, Leo, really?" he squeals, head whipping, probably looking for the biggest, most fragile thing in the room to bust up. "Can we?"

"Leave anything that looks like it might be actually important, though. Even if he is kind of a sleazeball, he is the guy running our K-Science division."

"Even April O'Neil looked like she was going to throw up on the show this morning, Leo. He's not doing any important research for us and we all know it," laughs Michelangelo, giddy. "The dude's just a smartass."

Raphael mutters, "Sounds like someone else we all know."

"Hey!"

Raphael slides down from the cooling shaft and exchanges a halfhearted scuffle with Michelangelo, and after the moment abates the two begin to search around for anything that could be demolished with minimal noise. Leonardo unzips his black hoodie and straps the folders into the minimal armor covering his torso, and motion for Donatello to look up from his place at Stockman's computer. "What's it look like?"

"Like somebody was here twenty minutes ago," says Donatello worriedly, incomprehensible numbers and windows streaming down the set of monitors hooked up the the user interface. "But- it doesn't make any sense. It was used to retrace a hidden ghost function in his system, but it says the sequence has already been run. And now there's nobody here."

"Can you try to run the program again?" Leonardo asks, and then gives Donatello a smile that he hopes comes off as reassuring. "I'll nab you some of the really good toys from the back if you can do it in five minutes."

"Make that four minutes, and get me some of those mini sequencing arrays," Donatello shoots back, suddenly grinning like the Donatello from before this whole mess started and everything seemed fine and peachy. "I thought you were supposed to be the goody two-shoes."

"Shut up and do your thing," says Leonardo, momentarily feeling all but ten again, before turning and circling the room, swiping up anything that looks like an actual robber would steal it, and whatever might be useful to Donatello later. Like a bootleg Ocean's Eleven. With a couple of what looks to be those 'mini sequencing arrays' in his pocket, he finds Raphael and Michelangelo on the other side of the room, gleefully pulling apart a supply cabinet and scattering beakers and scales across the floor.

Shit, Master Splinter would be so disappointed.

Then again, Leonardo thinks to himself deep down under his thudding, nervous heart as Michelangelo holds up a case full of electrodes and Leonardo winds up to high-kick it across the room, this is… kind of fun. It shouldn't be this fun. It shouldn't be this fun to casually jab Michelangelo in the ribs and ruffle his hair when he sends a shelf of plastic cotton swab cases across the floor with a swift butterfly kick, or to tentatively reach to give Raphael a fist bump after a particularly good punch leaves an actual dent in one of the aluminum tables. It really, really shouldn't. But it is.

It doesn't last.

True to form, in three minutes and thirty seconds flat, Donatello pipes up from the increasingly chaotic carnage that three seventeen-year-old boys can wreak and calls out, "Uh, guys?"

It's hardly an adequate warning. As Leonardo, Raphael and Michelangelo stop dead in their tracks, Donatello stands up from Stockman's personal computer with a frighteningly confused face and just says, "Uh," before he pointedly looks towards a wall on the other side of the room.

Leonardo turns his head and sees a previously stationary panel slowly sliding back and separating into doors that hiss open into a narrow, dark hallway.

Donatello just nervously laughs and says, "The other person was hacking into Stockman's system looking for a hidden protocol and found this, uh… door."

The passageway looks almost cavernous, a long, steep trek into the depths of the South Wing, completely out of place in an otherwise blank wall in what used to be a pristine private lab. It's obvious now that the intruder who came in before the Hamato brothers found this walkway, entered, and had no way of coming back for his or her hacking device.

Michelangelo drops the last of the instruments in his hands into the open tank of Kaiju gizzard and leans in to peer into the hallway. "Looks like it's going between the walls all the way through Level Two. Stockman, you naughty doctor professor scientist thing, you."

"What's a guy like him doin' sneakin' around in the Dome?" Raphael growls. He's about to charge in when Leonardo, unthinkingly, stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

Raphael flinches and Leonardo has half a moment to think to himself, 'Crap-' before brushing it off and just clapping him on the back once.

"The person who was here before us didn't get a chance to come back. We can't risk leaving any evidence right now. Let's double check before we go in." He gestures to the rest of the contents of the unmarked file cabinet while Donatello nods and starts unhooking both palmtops from Stockman's computer. With one last sad look at a computer he is obviously jealous of, he almost gives it a half salute before ramming through the monitor and hard drive with a swift strike with his bo staff.

Raphael nods jerkily and then whips out one of the chrome sai strapped to his waist. With one savage backhanded blow, the clamps on the nearest specimen tank snap off and the whole thing topples to the floor with a dull crash. Formaldehyde and Kaiju Blue spills everywhere, staining the floor with a dull, sickly sheen and splattering right over the open file cabinet.

"Come on, let's go," says Leonardo, and he waits until his three brothers are already almost into the dark hallway before sparing one last long look at the soggy mess of papers he is leaving behind, already starting to hiss and decompose in the toxic, bright blue sludge.

The same color as Michelangelo's eyes.

Unsurprisingly, the doors hiss shut almost as soon as Leonardo slips in after Donatello, thrusting them all into near darkness.

"Dammit. Flashlights or ninja vision?"

"Ninja vision."

"Ugh, fi-i-i-ine. This is Silent-Hill-level creepy, dudes. Or Amnesia. I keep expecting to start running away from Slenderman-"

"Shut UP, Mikey!"

The passage is too narrow for anyone to comfortably switch positions, but Raphael seems to be all right leading the way deep, deep into the middle of the Shatterdome. There are a few sharp turns and soon the floor takes a steep incline downwards into what is presumably Level One, the entire passageway lined with thick metal sheets and steel beams, occasionally bisected with pipes and echoing vents. They're between the walls of the South Wing, spaces analogue to similar secret passageways through and under the North Wing, but obviously not designed for the easy transportation of four secret teenagers. Leonardo hadn't considered that there were places in the dark corners of the Shatterdome the brothers hadn't known to exist.

Stockman has never been inside the North Wing- that much is certain. The security is too tight, and Donatello rigged up cameras inside even the smallest entrances to prevent anyone but the actual crew getting inside. Leonardo is completely certain that Master Splinter had the North Wing built to such secretive specifications that only he and the Hamato brothers have ever travelled through its secret passageways. But Stockman obviously has at least some idea of how the New York Shatterdome was actually built, especially if he knew to work his way into the position of Head of K-Science on a hokey resume and almost cartoonish reputation.

This worries him. At this point, Stockman is already highly suspicious- after all, what trustworthy character would build a secret doorway into the walls of the Dome to sneak around security?- but something, be it ninja senses, the protective instinct, or just plain paranoia, is grappling at his heart and causing every fiber of Leonardo's being to go into hyperdrive.

Which is why the scream that suddenly rings through the passageway nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

Immediately, he chokes out, "Go, go!" and the brothers leap into action, hearts in their throats, adrenaline running high between their unshakable four-way Drift. In unison, the four brothers pull their makeshift bandanas over their faces and draw their weapons- katana, sai, a bo staff and nunchaku. Pulse ramming through his system, Leonardo spills after his brothers into the light at the end of the tunnel, neatly tumbling into a dimly lit corner of one of the supply warehouses on Level One. The shock is almost paralyzing- it's one of the top-secret holdings, somewhere even K-Science isn't allowed into. This is Marshal-level security clearance. And Stockman's been coming and going through here the entire time.

The brothers seamlessly slide into formation- just like a training session in the Dojo, Leonardo half tries to convince himself as he leaps to the top of a stack of locked crates, crouching down to run, swords drawn, head ducked under the low ceiling. Donatello and Michelangelo circle around the nearest storage containers, sticking to the dark shadows, while Raphael skirts around the edge of the room itself, disappearing into the opposite side.

Another choked cry reverberates through the metal walls and when Leonardo reaches the other side and leaps soundlessly across the neat rows of shelves he can see very clearly into the next room through the wide-open double doors, adrenaline rising and red starting to stain his vision.

No, no. Calm. Breathe.

Breathe and let focus be your guide. Just like Sensei says.

Focus on the six or seven seriously tough-looking guys circling the warehouse and the woman in a large black coat running for her life through the rows of shelves.

Leonardo summons up his best Fearless Leader voice and orders, "Don, cut the lights!"

In a stunned silent moment, while the woman and the men rounding on her suddenly look up in confusion at his voice, Donatello leaps up from his position circling the left of the warehouse and plunges one end of his long wooden bo staff into what looks to be a circuit breaker on the wall, plunging everything into total darkness.

Ninja vision indeed.

The thugs start to yell, but the noise is quickly overtaken in yelps and panicked cries of, "They're armed!" Leonardo tunes it all out, and narrows his gaze, pupils rapidly dilating in the shadowy black. He has to focus.

Focus on the enemy.

Focus on the guys in dark, ill-fitting civilian clothes, throwing up street fighting moves and sloppy martial arts stances of all kinds.

No fear.

Focus on Michelangelo, who can't help but throw back his head and cackle, taunting two of the attackers towards him before crushing their cheekbones with his spinning chucks.

No fear.

Focus on the woman scrambling around the thugs, finding a decently heavy metal briefcase amongst the shelves, and charging back at the enemy to swing it wildly at their heads until it finally connects with a satisfying THWACK.

No fear.

Focus on Donatello, who crouches low and circles a guy brandishing an actual tactical blade, waiting until he drops his guard and then ramming his gut with his staff and sending him reeling.

No fear.

Focus on the enemy that charges at him. He's going to swipe with his right- dodge, shift weight to the toes, come up behind him (blind spot at the shoulder blade) to give him a nasty crack on the skull with the hilt of his sword, then kick up with his knee to meet his forehead for a second blow.

No fear.

Focus on Raphael, who roars, sai glinting in the low light.

No fear.

Focus.

-

April's heart is ramming a thundering staccato against her chest, everything from her fingertips to her vision jittering and pulsating with adrenaline. Completely certain that the rogue night guards would have eventually caught up to her and killed her, or at the very least identified her to assassinate later, she reels back from the force of the briefcase she took off the shelf colliding with some jarhead flunky's face, breathing hard. Her eyes wildly scan the room, but she can't see anything outside of vague shadows and the occasional softly rim-lit silhouette. She can really only tell that someone's trying to come at her when they're too close to do anything but fight, but now that there's no danger of being seen April doesn't need to waste her breath sticking to the shadows any longer.

In the murky coal-black April lunges towards the guy that stands between her and the wall, aiming for the general ear area with the heavy metal briefcase and resisting a victorious little "Yeah!" when there's the satisfying crunch of aluminum against flesh and bone. Vibrating with nervous energy, she hugs her new improvised weapon close to her chest and backs into the wall, blinking hard, trying to get her bearings… and to try to catch a glimpse of the biggest surprise of the night.

A couple of guys, dropping in from literally out of nowhere, who, from the sounds of it, are having a great time pummeling her pursuers into a pulp.

April gulps, nearly chokes on her own spit from the tremors, and hopes feverishly that they're friendlies.

It's over faster than she could have expected- with a few final thumps from bodies hitting the ground, the darkness of the warehouse fades into near-silence, with only a few pants coming from the remaining fighters. Too few to be the guys chasing her. The intruders have won. April wills her pulse to slow down, idly wondering if these new guys can hear the hammering of her heart from where they stand, and slides down against the wall with some measure of relief and the creeping edges of exhaustion. Her eyes finally adjusting to the darkness somewhat, she can barely count out four standing figures holding various weapons that glint dully from the slivers of light that peek in from the edges of the warehouse doors.

The breathlessness of her own voice surprises her. "Thanks for the help, guys, but you know I had 'em on the ropes."

Someone laughs nervously at her joke, a surprisingly young-sounding voice that kind of breaks at the edges, and someone else hisses almost excitedly, "It's the news lady! It's April O'Neil!"

One of them holding a pair of actual honest-to-goodness swords (but really, what could surprise her after today?) approaches her steadily and cautiously, as if verifying that it is indeed her. Aware that her only chance to get out of this mess is to somehow prove to these new, dubiously trustworthy strangers that she means no harm, April decides to reach slowly up to spread out the collar of her coat. The black fabric that hugs her throat unfolds and flips over a hidden seam to reveal its bright sunshine-yellow lining, telltale April O'Neil yellow, bright against the reversible black side and dark purple shirt even in the darkness.

"Yeah, I'm April O'Neil. You watch my show, right? I'm not trying to steal anything from the PADC. I'm just trying to get answers."

The sword guy seems to regard her for a moment, face hidden, but then nods once (almost imperceptibly) and says, voice worryingly young, "Are you all right?"

April nods jerkily, red hair frizzing into her face as she struggles to keep her composure, though she knows she probably looks like she's fraying at the edges. Sneaking into a private lab by crawling through the vents, discovering a secret doorway and being chased through the walls of a Shatterdome does that to people. Hyperaware that her chest is still heaving from the exertion and sudden wave of nausea and dizziness that hits her like a train wreck, April tries to stand up, one hand on the wall, but her legs crumble beneath her. Instantly, two of her rescuers rush to her sides, steadying her.

"I need to get out of here."

"Leo, she's starting to go into acute fatigue," murmurs one on the guys propping her up, surreptitiously checking her wrist.

April doesn't bother to even try and jerk away when the other guy curiously pokes her in the face. "These creeps that attacked me- what if they wake up? I- I-"

"Miss, you're probably going to pass out," says Pulse-Checker.

"I won't pass out," April automatically grouses, breathlessly, and passes out.

-

Michelangelo's finger hovers over April O'Neil's flushed cheek, eyes wide with wonder as her head lolls back and she goes limp against his and Donatello's arms.

A hundred different emotions flick through his face at once, barely obscured by the ripped-up strip of orange fabric covering his face. Excitement, tentative hope, wicked glee and pure joy.

"Can we keep her?"

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the lack of a beta in this endeavor. Unfortunately for my writing process and your readership, previous chapters have been edited very, very slightly to reflect quality changes and story changes from development. Current readers do not need to go back and re-read anything. The only actually noticeable difference will be the renaming of the Hamato Brothers' twin Jaegers, for a very good reason. Also, the visual development for the brothers has been put on hold and a sketch will be included with this chapter or the next as soon as I can manage it. I apologize for the inconvenience and will promise to control the quality of the initial chapter update better than I have been.
> 
> Any and all comments are precious to me, so please leave one if you can.
> 
> Next time: Some answers... and even more questions!?


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